Stories From Baker Street
by Lynn Heartnet
Summary: A collection of Johnlock fanfictions sure to please.
1. Intimate Inverness

It was a cold autumn night, and it was as wet as you'd expect London to be. About a dozen or so assorted police officers and rubberneckers were gathering around the home of Morgan Greer in honor of his ongoing arrest. People watched and phone cameras flashed, the majority of those cameras directed at one Mr. Sherlock Holmes who was currently riding the usual post-case thrill.  
"I am on _fire_ today, John." He laughed excitedly. "It was obvious really, Morgan covering for his twin after all Jason Greer is a construction worker but Morgan could never pass as such because of his hands! They were flawless, clean and nails unbroken clearly a pencil pusher hasn't worked with his hands a day in his life..."  
"Alright, alright I get it! You're oh so clever, now shut up, you sod." John couldn't keep from chuckling though, Sherlock's energy was infectious. The pale thin detective was quivering with excitement and happiness, though John suspected the shaking also had something to do with the fact that Sherlock had gone without sleep or food for three days. That was his usual case procedure, much to John's disapproval.  
"Oh, that was fun." Sherlock sighed contently and set out for home with John close at his side.  
John was trying to imagine how he could convince Sherlock to actually eat something when a cold wind started biting at the back of his neck. John shivered, regretting forgoing a heavier jacket that morning. He stared at Sherlock's warm trench coat with envy. God what he wouldn't give for a coat like that right now.  
"So I've been experimenting with the inciendiary properties of..." Sherlock began, but John didn't even bother listening to the rant seeing as what he didn't know couldn't get him in trouble with Mrs. Hudson, not to mention being too busy listening to the sound of his teeth chattering. Finally he could take it no longer, Baker Street was too close to get a cab but still too far to put up with the cold. So while Sherlock was still droning on about his dubious experiments John grabbed his coat and slipped inside of it. The detective froze mid-sentence, his hands still in the air halfway through some wild gesture.  
"J-John?" Sherlock stuttered, staring down at the army doctor that was currently making himself at home in the lining of his trench coat.  
"S'cold." John muttered, pressing his face against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's cheeks heated up, and he stood there silently, unsure of what to do. He could feel John shivering, and even he had to admit that it felt nice having John's form pressed up against him. His arms seemed to move on their own, pulling John in to warm him up. They stood there for awhile, just sharing body heat, John with a coy smile on his face and Sherlock blushing bright red, until suddenly Sherlock slipped out of his coat and secured it around John's shoulders.  
"Well come on, don't stand around all night." Sherlock sighed, avoiding John's gaze. The doctor laughed and grabbed the detective's hand, the two of them walking off into the night.


	2. Disorganization

John sighed with frustration, it was just too much for him. The coffee table in front of him was covered in all kinds of papers, case files, books, sticky notes and then some. When he stumbled into the living room that morning and saw Sherlock working on "organizing" his case files he knew it was going to be a rough day. The detective was making it impossible for anyone else to be in the same apartment, leaping over the couch and tacking sticky notes everywhere and shoving case files into the most random locations (John once found the story of triplet murderers shoved in with the coffee filters).  
"Sherlock couldn't you just get a file cabinet for these?" John sighed, trying his hardest to ignore the antics of the man in the dressing gown.  
"John, make yourself useful and shut up." Came the caustic (and uncalled for) response.  
"That's it, I am bloody tired of your nonsense, Sherlock clean up these papers or I'll throw them all away!" John roared, leaping up from the couch. In that moment it was easy to remember that he was a soldier, every inch of him radiated authority and anger.  
"I have a system." Sherlock replied, his catlike eyes glaring into John's.  
"The same system that decided it was okay to stab your mail into the mantelpiece?" John rolled his eyes and gestured to the knife that held all of Sherlock's letters in place.  
"It's right where I want it." Sherlock hissed. "I don't need you to question it."  
"Sherlock, I live here too and I am tired of wading through failed experiments, human body parts, and case files." John folded his arms over his chest and tapped his foot, the two of them appeared to be a teacher scolding a student who forgot his homework. "So today we put an end to this."  
Sherlock sighed reluctantly, and tossed one last pile of papers into the air for the sake of dramatic rebellion. John gave a sigh that echoed Sherlock's, he could see the long day stretching out before him...

John jumped when a mug of tea was placed on the endtable near his elbow, he'd been dozing and the sudden noise jerked him into the wide awake world of the living. He gratefully took the mug, and became barely awake enough to be surprised that Sherlock had lifted a finger to make tea. Yet there was the detective, perched on the arm of the couch and observing John with tired eyes.  
"I suppose this is when you say thank you?" John jested, elbowing Sherlock playfully.  
"Hmph. Doubtful. When have I been known to say that?" Sherlock smirked, at least having the decency to play off his ingratitude as a joke.  
"You're a handful, I shouldn't have to babysit you all day and clean up your messes!" John scolded only half serious.  
"Yet here you are." Sherlock leaned in to steal a kiss.  
"Yeah, you lucky bastard."


	3. Reckless

John tried to quiet his breathing, gripping his revolver with his back to the wall. He strained to hear the conversation going on in the living room, the whole will his heart pounding with fear and excitement. One voice was undeniably Sherlock's, after all it was his text that had summouned John downstairs a minute earlier. It had read:  
Unexpected visitor. Take precautions.  
-SH  
Take precautions always translated to "get a gun" when Sherlock said it.  
The other voice took awhile for John to identify, but soon recognized it as the voice of Frank Ire: an arsonist for hire that Sherlock had put away last year. He'd broken out not too long ago, and had wasted no time sending the detective threatening letters which, up until now, had simply been scoffed at and thrown in the trash.  
There was still some scoffing to be done apparently, since Sherlock was showing a complete lack of common sense by insulting the man currently holding a gun aimed at his head.  
"Your clumsy attempt at concealing yourself in the room shows me that you're not nearly as interesting as I once thought you were. Do try to show some initative next time." The pale man said, his voice acerbic.  
"Oi, I said shaddup!" Frank yelled, jerking the gun about with angry intent. "I woz gonna light the whole damn place up, you're just lucky you saw me!"  
"Clearly." Sherlock rolled his eyes, unconvinced.  
John peeked out into the living room, wishing Sherlock would hurry it up and think of some genius way to distract the crazed criminal. If he leapt out there now with a gun in his hand he'd probably just get Sherlock shot. Of course if Sherlock kept insulting him like that he'd get himself shot anyway.  
"I could kill you right now." Frank considered, sounding more like he was convincing himself than informing Sherlock.  
"Oh I highly doubt that. You set fires, you burn down shoddy buildings so business owners can buy the property. You're not a killer. You're not even worth my time." Sherlock smirked, and John could have throttled him right then and there.  
"I could kill you!" Frank shouted, his face contorted with fear and rage. Sherlock eyed him up and shook his head with a low chuckle. That's when Frank shot.  
John heard Sherlock hiss with pain and jumped out, firing instinctivly. His shot connected with Frank's shoulder and the would-be murderer collapsed with a scream. John kicked his gun away and stifled the urge to add a few kicks into Frank's skull and ribs. As it was he allowed himself to smack Frank against the head with his gun to lay him out cold. Sherlock was already pushing himself up into a sitting position, clutching at his arm where the material of his white dress shirt was turning crimson.  
"You...you bloody idiot!" John half screamed half gasped. "He has a gun and you stand there... trying to pick a fight?" At this point John had ripped off Sherlock's shirt and tossed it away so he could examine the injury.  
"Honestly, John. He was shaking with fear, and he's never used a gun before. His chances of hitting me in a fatal location, as you can see, were slim." Sherlock replied caustically. John growled and decided to examine Sherlock as un-gently as possible.  
"Just shut up and call Lestrade. You're lucky he only grazed you." The army doctor's voice fell into a low rumble, he was very clearly not pleased and that was an understatement. Sherlock found himself nervous enough to at least text Lestrade but not enough to follow his orders fully and call him.  
Sherlock sat silently while John finished up tending to his injuries using the supplies he'd brought home for situations just like this. Sherlock could tell from the doctor's face that he was not only angry, but relieved, he must have been scared. Sherlock sighed and leaned against him, laying his head against John's.  
"...sorry." he murmured.  
"You're damn right you're sorry." John huffed, finishing the bandage. He glared up at Sherlock, who was shooting him a pathetic look. Then he sighed and pressed a kiss to the forehead that was framed by those wild dark curls. "For the record you are never allowed to do anything again. You're to pick up some dull hobby and avoid getting yourself killed. No more near death scares." John joked, prodding Sherlock in the chest with his finger.  
"Of course. I'll just take up beekeeping and be a stay at home housewife." Sherlock smirked, locking lips with John.  
Sherlock curled up in John's arms and the doctor, just happy to see him mostly unhurt, tangled his fingers in his dark hair and laid kisses on his neck and jaw. They stayed that way until Lestrade and the gang showed up to cart Frank off again. They were gone just as quickly as they'd come, most likely because Sherlock began making withering comments about the quality of the force. Normally John would reprimend him for this, but punishment was lenient seeing as the man had already been shot.  
Sherlock complained for quite a bit about how the gunshot stung as they settled down on the couch to continue their normal night, but John just ignored it with his usual patience.  
"Quite enough excitment for the night, wouldn't you say, John?" Sherlock asked, grinning.  
"Only as much as usual." John rolled his eyes. "So...beekeeping?"


	4. Heaven's Dust Part 1

Even though John had broken up with Jessica two days ago when he found her sleeping with the guy next door, he still hadn't worked up the courage to go crawling back to 221B. He still couldn't believe that he'd spent two months with her, even moved in with her just to have her betray him like that. When he came home to see their neighbor in bed with his girlfriend he'd just gone to a hotel, putting off the inevitable return to Baker Street. He couldn't bear to hear Sherlock's "I told you so's".  
Still, it seemed he just couldn't keep any of the Holmes men out of his life, because there was Mycroft standing outside the door to his room, umbrella in hand and customary scowl on his face.  
"Dr. Watson." He stated simply and pushed his way into the room, looking about with some visible distaste.  
"Um...hello?" John replied.  
"We have something to talk about, please sit down." Mycroft sighed, his voice as lethargic yet regal as always. John realized that Mycroft was inviting him to sit even though he was the guest, but did as he said anyway.  
"So...what is it? I didn't accidentally commit treason did I?" John joked lamely, wondering why else the important government official would suddenly turn up at his door.  
Then it clicked. Sherlock.  
Whenever Mycroft bothered talking to John at all, it meant Sherlock was in some kind of trouble and due to the Holmes brothers' ongoing sibling rivalry, Sherlock would accept no help from Mycroft.  
"When have you last seen my brother?" Mycroft asked.  
"Not for awhile actually...maybe last month? He's busy most of the time. Always working some new case." John's concern for his friend grew, he wished Mycroft would stop being so vague and get to the point. "Why? Is something wrong?"  
"Well, I'll just say it's imperative that you return to your old lodgings immediately. I will settle the hotel bill, and you will leave now." Mycroft was infuriatingly blase about the whole thing.  
"Hang on, what do you mean I'm leaving?" John asked. "You won't even tell me what's going on and you expect me to take orders from you?"  
"Please, John." Mycroft pleaded, and that was something John wasn't used to seeing from him. "This needs to stay between you and me. We can't let anyone else know or the consequences for him would be terrible. Please if you care for Sherlock Holmes, you will go home to him now."  
John stared for a moment, gaping, then nodded.  
"A-alright...okay." John sighed. "So it's serious?"  
"Indeed." Mycroft stood and walked to the door, then he turned. "Thank you for your cooperation, doctor."

John didn't know what to expect when he came back, after all no one knew what to expect with Sherlock. The man had a habit of walking into the room covered in blood and holding a harpoon for God's sake! So when he ascended the stairs to his old flat, his heart hammered in his chest.  
Yes, he had no idea what to expect, but he certainly didn't think he'd be attacked upon entering the flat.  
No one had answered to his knocking, so he'd just opened the door feeling familiar enough with his old place to come in uninvited. As soon as he'd set one foot through the door someone jumped him, hitting him across the back with a broom handle. Being around Sherlock and time in Afghanistan had guaranteed that John was no pushover, so he managed to recover quickly and swing around to block the next blow. He grabbed the broom and flung it away.  
"What the hell was that?" he yelled, and then he froze, because his attacker was a pale thin man in a blue dressing gown-none other than Sherlock.  
"I don't know how you found me, but be warned, if you try to kill me then we both go down." Sherlock snarled, and John took a second to look the man up and down to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. Yes, it was Sherlock, but he was a shadow of his usual self. Thinner than usual, disheveled, wild-eyed, something was definitely wrong.  
"Sherlock, it's just me. Now calm down..." John put his hands up in a placating gesture. He tried to focus on this from a medical perspective, he had to ignore that his best friend just attacked him and try to find the reasoning why. Clearly Sherlock was not well, but why?  
"I don't know who you are." Sherlock growled, eyes darting about...doubtless to find another weapon.  
"It's me. John. Calm down." Dilated pupils, light sensitive no doubt from the way he was squinting, now check the wrists. Just as he thought, multiple puncture marks. Conclusion: Sherlock was using again. Enough so to make him delusional, paranoia was a dangerous side effect of cocaine, in this case more dangerous to John than Sherlock seeing as the detective was hell bent on hurting him.  
"John left." Sherlock spat. "So who are you?"  
"It really is me, it's John." John tried to scoot closer, if he could just subdue him...  
"Prove it. Tell me something only John would know." Sherlock's eyes studied John, distrustful.  
"Alright, what do you want to know?" John asked, taking another step, but Sherlock noticed this time and stepped backwards.  
"Stay back." He hissed. "Now, tell me...what happened after we went to Dewer's Hollow?"  
"You...got scared, and we got in a fight. Then you experimented with my tea. Sherlock it really is me." John insisted, and a spark of recognition appeared in Sherlock's eyes.  
"...John?" He asked, his guard lowering just slightly.  
"It's me." John stepped forward again. "Sherlock, let me help you." The detective's lip quivered, like a sad child. Then he flung himself at John and fell into his arms.  
"John..." he sighed. "You came back..."  
"Yeah, well your brother near threatened me, and I knew you couldn't take care of yourself so..." John tried to force a jovial tone into his voice, and tried to ignore the way Sherlock was shaking.  
"Mycroft is always poking his nose where it doesn't belong." Sherlock scowled. "I'm fine. I've been under attack the past few weeks but besides that I'm quite fine."  
"Under attack?" John asked, a bit skeptical.  
"I know they're there. I still don't know who they are but they've come for me. How on Earth did you get past them, John? Heh, always the soldier. I bet you scared them off for awhile." Sherlock stood and glanced out of the windows as he said this, his grip on reality clearly slipping.  
"Sherlock...how much have you been taking?" John asked, causing Sherlock to display a blank face.  
"How much what?" He replied innocently.  
"Sherlock, I know things seem a bit muddled right now, but try to think. There aren't any attackers, you've been taking cocaine. How much?" John pressed, walking up to Sherlock and gently placing a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock scowled again, glaring at John.  
"Believe what you want." He said, pushing John's hand away and retreating to his bedroom.


	5. Heaven's Dust Part 2

Moving back in was the easy part, in fact Mycroft practically flung his things through the door eager to get his brother a much needed personal doctor. The hard part was the unwilling patient.  
The first thing John did, right after Sherlock had retreated to his bedroom, was to search the flat. He looked in all the usual places, except for Sherlock's room of course because conducting a drug search with him present would surely call for another violent reaction, and John's back still hurt from the thrashing he'd received.  
Even with Sherlock's mind slipping as it was, he was still as clever as always. John's search became painstakingly difficult, and a few hours had passed by the time he finally turned up a few bags of the white powder.  
John's back was aching, his head was pounding, and he could feel that old familiar pain in his leg starting again. He decided to just take a moment to sit down and gather his thoughts.  
"How do I fix this...?" he sighed to himself. If he could just approach this like Sherlock did...the way he always just sat down and thought for hours on end and would then leap up with his eyes gleaming and a triumphant grin on his face. What he wouldn't give to have that Sherlock back. This Sherlock, this raving and delusional Sherlock with ill eyes, scared him. It must scare Sherlock too, to have clouded his own mind so much.  
"Alright. First I need to eliminate any stash of the drug he has. That's half done." John said to himself. "Then I need to break the addiction...then I need to find out why he started again to prevent it from happening another time."  
What could have caused Sherlock to turn back to cocaine? Sherlock had told him of his younger years when he'd turned to drugs because of "family troubles" as he referred to them. When John had asked Mycroft what that meant, the elder Holmes brother had told him that if Sherlock wanted him to know he'd tell him in his own time. Clearly he'd gotten over it, so why was he using again now? He could practically hear Sherlock's voice in his head...  
Think, John, think. It's so obvious, staring you right in the face really. What kind of idiot wouldn't notice it?  
He smirked. This was the Sherlock he needed back...

"Get away!" Sherlock lobbed the nearest object, it happened to be a mug, at John trying to fend him off.  
"Sherlock! Stop this!" John took a deep breath, you couldn't yell at patients you had to be well...patient with them. He needed to calm Sherlock down, get him to sleep.  
The detective had woken in the night in the grip of a paranoid nightmare, when John came downstairs to investigate he'd been attacked...again.  
"Sherlock, it's just me, just let me help you." John put his hands out, and Sherlock's eyes seemed to clear up a bit, but his shivering continued. "Just let me help..." He had to keep him still before he hurt himself.  
Or me. John thought wryly. I just need to keep him still...  
He managed to get close enough to Sherlock to touch him, he moved slowly like you would with a wild animal.  
"I won't hurt you. I'll keep you safe I promise..." John pulled Sherlock into his arms and held him there tightly.  
"John..." Sherlock's breath was hot on John's ear. The detective whimpered slightly as John lifted him up and placed him back on the bed. His pale fingers found purchase on John's jumper and he pulled him in tighter. John allowed himself to be pulled down onto the bed, and wrapped Sherlock up in his arms.  
Just to keep him still of course. No other reason. Clearly.  
"There now...you're alright." John whispered.  
"...I know John...I'd ask you not to patronize me but I deserve no better...my mind seems so clouded..." Sherlock, in a moment of rare clarity, replied.  
"I'll fix that." John said, and before he knew what he was doing he leaned in and kissed Sherlock on the forehead.  
John held his breath, his cheeks flushed with red he sat and waited for the cutting remark Sherlock would throw at him yet none came.

On the fourth day, Sherlock displayed clear signs of being well on the way to recovery. Even going so far as to make sarcastic remarks whenever John tried to note withdrawal symptoms. Most of it seemed to be to save his pride, after all when the cleverest man in the room is dissolved into a paranoid wreck, what else can he do but act even more clever to cover his shame? So John let him get away with more than a few rude comments, simply taking his pulse and checking his pupils in silence. It was during one of these instances that Sherlock revealed his secret.  
"My mother." he said simply. He was sitting on the couch with John kneeling in front of him, the doctor had already swept the apartment for drugs and checked Sherlock's pupils in what Sherlock called "an exercise in futility seeing as I am fully cured".  
"What about her?" John asked distractedly, peering at puncture marks trying to figure out if they were old scars or new wounds.  
"Nothing much really...she was a pleasant woman..." Sherlock pretended to find something of great interest outside the window. Then a few moments later: "My father killed her."  
John froze, he let the last sentence register and then looked up at the detective who was refusing to make eye contact.  
"She had a lover." he continued. "She'd had one for quite some time, it was obvious to me and Mycroft of course. When father found out he was furious. So he killed her, and then himself." Sherlock's bright eyes slid around and found John's, which were full of concern. "It's why I started using cocaine. Or at least the closet reason I can think of. My parents were gone, Mycroft grew colder, I was...lonely. After that it was just because the thrill of the drug was...irresistible." Sherlock swallowed.  
"...I'm sorry." John murmured.  
"Oh don't be stupid, John, I wasn't telling you to get pity." Sherlock huffed.  
"...Why did you start using this time?" John pushed, still curious. Sherlock stared down at him blankly.  
"I was bored. I was lonely."  
Oh.  
"John left."  
" Think, John, think. It's so obvious, staring you right in the face really. What kind of idiot wouldn't notice it?"  
Oh!  
"S-Sherlock..." John stuttered, but Sherlock just looked away.  
"Like I said before. I didn't tell you to get pity, and I won't have anymore pity from this point..." Sherlock didn't get to finish his sentence because John pulled his face down gently and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. Sherlock blushed, his eyes asking a million questions at once.  
"Sherlock, you're hopeless, but I trust you with my life and I can bring you onto a battlefield without worrying about you breaking down." John gave a small grin. "Minus the breakdown we just witnessed of course...still I could never have a healthy relationship with any other woman with the way I live. It had to be you, and I wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

**Thanks for reading this far, I enjoy feedback. **

**I really didn't mean for this story to get so long hence the two parts, but I hope it was good enough to merit it's length. The one-shots will continue henceforth.**

**Also, if you guys enjoy druggy Sherlock "feels" I highly recommend The Seven Per-Cent Solution by Nicholas Meyer. Great read. **


	6. Don't Put This In Your Blog!

"Don't write that!"  
John was not an easy startled man, after all he'd served in Afghanistan, but when Sherlock nearly vaulted himself over the couch and grabbed his laptop away...he was pretty damn startled.  
"E-excuse me?" The doctor stuttered, hands still poised to type as if he didn't yet realize his laptop was gone. Sherlock was busy jabbing at the backspace button, ignoring John's reaction. It took awhile but John managed to catch up to Sherlock's fast paced actions, and when he noticed the detective deleting what he had written so far for his blog post he leapt up and snatched the laptop back.  
"Hey! I worked hard writing that!" He spared a moment to glare back at Sherlock's own glower before turning back to the screen to see how much he had to rewrite.  
"John. Don't post that." Sherlock huffed, pouting like a child.  
"Why not?" John sat down again, not even looking up from the screen. Sherlock shuffled up next to John, a pale thin figure in pajamas and robe that seemed too loose for his slender limbs.  
"...Because."  
This latest blog post that Sherlock found so abhorrent had nothing to do with casework or Sherlock's bored actions when there was a lack thereof. It was just a normal blog post just talking about Sherlock. Not his amazing deductive skills or his detective prowess, but instead about his personality, his looks, his charm. John had really just been writing to keep himself busy and to keep the hungry readers at bay, ever since the two of them had come out as a couple his blog had gotten so many hits and comments that his head spun. Maybe if he just gave them what they wanted-namely a blog post full of romantic pondering- they'd stop. He didn't mind writing about Sherlock either, in fact he liked it. It was Sherlock that hated it.  
"Because?" John tilted his head. "I might need a better answer than that."  
"Because I said so." Sherlock lifted himself up, as if he was trying to appear dominant and regal.  
That never worked on John.  
"Ah. No, nice try, Sherlock."  
"John, please."  
John glanced up at his boyfriend, and all the telltale signs were there. Sullen eyes, pouting lips, he looked like a child that absolutely was not having Lima beans for dinner and that was the end of it.  
"What is it, hmm?" John tried not to grin, Sherlock was just too damn cute when he pouted, though he'd never let him know that because surely that was rewarding bad behavior.  
"...I just find the subject and reasoning behind your latest blog post highly distasteful." Sherlock sighed.  
"You realize you're calling yourself distasteful, you are the subject of the post after all." John chuckled.  
"John, I don't want you to post that." Sherlock huffed, a slight blush coming to his cheeks, and that's when John realized what was really going on.  
"Oh...I see...you're embarrassed are you?" John laughed, and Sherlock's eyes lit up with fury.  
"Of course not!" He spun around on his heel and stormed off into a bit of pacing. He walked back and forth in front of John, arms crossed over his chest.  
"If it bothers you that much..." John heaved a dramatic sigh. "I could delete it but you would be causing me so much emotional pain!" he smirked at Sherlock's rolling eyes.  
Sherlock usually didn't care about having a public image, in fact he was happy being unknown. He often let the police take credit for his work, just being happy having a case to work with and not caring what people thought. The only thing he cared about, it seemed, was John's blog. It was the only collection of his stories that he cared enough about to edit at great length and criticize even further.  
"...I just think it's pointless..." Sherlock found something very interesting to look at on the floor. "Going on and on like some schoolgirl."  
"So you don't want me to compliment those gorgeous shining eyes? Those dark curls? You don't want me to love how you fill with contagious energy at the first sign of trouble? Love your delicate hands?" John smirked, leaving the couch to stand behind Sherlock, leaving a kiss on his neck for each compliment.  
Sherlock blushed, and his brow furrowed.  
"I didn't say..."  
"Of course I wouldn't tell them everything. I wouldn't tell them about the dreamy look in your eyes when you lay around the flat with your mind so full of the most wondrous things. I won't tell them about your smile and how it makes my heart leap. I won't tell them about how beautiful your back looks under me or how you cry out when you come." John smirked at this part and Sherlock froze, cheeks bright red.  
There was no more arguing about the blog post after that, although there had still been plenty of activity in the flat.  
It appeared that John's sweet talking could work wonders even on Sherlock Holmes.


	7. Soft Side

It was priceless.

John couldn't believe his eyes, but even his shock couldn't stop him from snapping a few pictures on his phone.

The two of them had been walking home after lunch at Angelo's when John had spotted a lone child sobbing. He thought it a bit strange that there was a child left alone on a London street, and was considering walking up to ask him if he knew where his parents were when he noticed that Sherlock was gone.

Sherlock was now crouching down and talking very seriously to the child who was maybe five years old. The child had tear stains on his cheeks but was now otherwise very happy, clinging to Sherlock's coat sleeve. John inched forward, trying not to spook them, wanting to hear what they were saying.

"And you say you last saw her here?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. I remember the buildings." The boy nodded, and then cast his eyes up at John, nervous at the stranger's approach.

"Everything alright here?" John grinned down at his boyfriend who looked more serious then he had ever looked at the scene of a murder.

After all a good murder made him joyful to the point of giggling.

"Thomas has lost his dog, Blair." Sherlock replied curtly. "Thomas this is John. He works with me."

"Mr. John, I hired Mr. Sherlock to find Blair, will you help too?" Thomas asked, puffing up his chest slightly and standing on his tiptoes in an attempt to look more grown up.

"Well of course I will." John grinned, noticing how Sherlock took the boy's hand as he stood.

"He's run off from home to find her, so we also need to keep an eye out for his parents." The detective stated calmly.

"I have my phone, couldn't we try to call them?" John asked, not exactly eager to be the strange man picking up a random child and touring London with him.

"No! You can't! They told me I couldn't look for Blair! I have to find her first!" Thomas pouted, clasping Sherlock's hand with both of his, practically hiding behind the tall pale man's leg.

"It should be simple enough. There's various areas to search for tracks as well as plenty of witnesses. He only lost her yesterday so she couldn't have gotten far and knowing dogs she probably came back to this area to look for her master." Sherlock smirked. "Don't worry, John. Easy."

John rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the dull pain in his leg.

_Easy he said. I wasn't expecting to walk the whole of London today._

After a rather unsuccessful search the tired search party took refuge on a park bench. John offered to go get water and snacks, thinking that even though Sherlock never ate, a small child would certainly need something. It had only taken a few minutes to find some water bottles and granola bars, and he was already walking back now. For a second panic struck him as he realized he couldn't see Thomas, and he almost started running towards Sherlock to ask how he could possibly lose a child within the space of five minutes when he saw the small head poking out of Sherlock's coat.

Sherlock had undone his coat and pulled Thomas close to him so that one side of his coat would drape over the boy, who was currently dozing, his nose and cheeks pink from the cold air.

"Who knew that the infamous Sherlock Holmes had a soft spot for children?" John teased as he joined his boyfriend on the bench. Sherlock graced the comment only with an annoyed grunt, but his eyes held a spark of mirth. John gave him a few minutes to recover before returning to the topic.

"So...think you'd make a good father?" He asked innocently.

"I don't think thumbs in the fridge is exactly childproofing." Sherlock remarked dryly.

"True, true..." John chuckled, looking down at the sleeping child.

"However...it would be interesting to see how such a role would affect us and our relationship..." Sherlock's eyes flicked up towards John, who blushed slightly and grinned.

"Well we better help this kid find his dog, because I'd like to get home and I'm sure his parents are missing him." The doctor stretched and went to wake Thomas up. Before he could, Sherlock lifted the child up and started off again, leaving John chuckling and grinning widely behind him.

The door swung open revealing a young looking woman with red swollen eyes and tears streaking down her cheeks.

"Yes? Can I help you?" she sniffed, and John gave her a kind smile.

"Yes, actually, are you Thomas's mother?" He asked, and the woman gave a happy and excited sound actually clasping her hands together in joy.

"You've found him?" She grinned with relief, peering around John to find some sign of her child.

"Yes, actually, he was looking for his dog." John stepped aside so the woman could see her son, who was finding some great amusement at how Blair was trying to leap up and lick Sherlock's face. Sherlock, however, looked at the dog with disdain.

"Tommy!" The woman cried out and ran out to scoop her child into her arms where a tearful reunion occurred, all the while the dog barked and ran about the two of them with it's tail wagging.

"I told you not to go looking for her without us! You had to wait!" She scolded and Thomas pouted.

"I had to find her. Mr. Sherlock helped me! I was really careful! I did detective work to find her and I used de...de...deductive reasoning!" The boy insisted, stumbling over the confusing word with some effort. Both John and Sherlock had to grin at the kid using one of Sherlock's key phrases.

"Thank you both so much, really, thank you." Thomas's mother shooed Blair inside the house and turned back to smile at the two men.

"No trouble. You have a bright son." Sherlock said coolly, apparently distracted by something in the distance and not making eye contact with anyone.

Thomas squirmed free of his mother's arms and ran up to embrace Sherlock, reaching only his legs.

"Thank you, Mr. Sherlock, you're a good friend!" The child squeaked. John noticed a softening in Sherlock's eyes that would probably go unnoticed by anyone but him, and he laughed quietly to himself. The detective awkwardly reciprocated the hug.

John couldn't resist taking another picture.


	8. You Deserved That

For a moment John doubted his eyes.  
When he realized that his eyes were in fact working and that he was not dreaming, he got very very angry.  
You see a week prior Sherlock had vanished on the trail of a serial killer that targeted the homeless. John had been aware of Sherlock's plan to disguise himself as a vagrant and attract the killer's attention but he had not known that this involved leaving the flat and not coming back for a week.  
For all John knew Sherlock could have been dead.  
Yet there he was, sleeping peacefully in John's bed. Dark hair uncombed and wild, pale skin nearly matching the color of the sheets, blue dressing gown tangled up with his form and the comforter.  
He could have been dead for all John knew.  
John's body shook with mixed anger and relief, his hands balling into fists. There might have been tears in his eyes, but he didn't take the time to acknowledge them because he was too busy storming over to the bedside and shaking Sherlock into consciousness.  
"Sherlock you wake up right now!" He yelled, and the detective blinked open bleary eyes and fixed John with a weary gaze.  
"Mrm...John?" There were dark circles around Sherlock's eyes and he looked thinner than usual, so basically he looked like hell. John suspected this was more because he wasn't there to force Sherlock to take care of himself rather than Sherlock being unable to care for himself.  
"Yes. John." The army doctor glared down at his boyfriend. "That is my name. However I seem to be at a loss as to who you are because you couldn't be Sherlock Holmes the man who disappeared off the face of the Earth, and it's good that you're not because if you were I would have to strangle you."  
Sherlock's response was a small grunt of acknowledgement and a retreat into the blankets.  
"Oh no you don't. Sherlock you owe me an explanation!" John yanked the blankets off leaving his boyfriend shivering and clinging to the sheets.  
"Well? Aren't you going to tell me about your oh-so-clever adventure?" John growled.  
Sherlock didn't answer.  
Now that was unusual, Sherlock always had a comeback he always knew what withering remark was called for. The eerie silence did not bode well.  
"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and brushing the dark hair out of Sherlock's face. As he did he felt the heat burning away at Sherlock's forehead, and the detective let out a small whimper.  
"I'm fine." He croaked, pulling John's hand off his forehead with some reluctance.  
"You have a fever." John stated.  
"It's fine."  
"You went out and got yourself sick."  
"It's nothing. You don't need to worry."  
John sighed, and then chuckled and soon he was laughing while Sherlock glared up at him.  
"I fail to see how this is humorous." Sherlock said caustically, the end of his sentence half obscured by a cough.  
"It's just that you really deserved that Sherlock." John smirked. "It's karma."  
"I rather not waste time discussing your idiotic belief that the universe is punishing me." Sherlock pouted and pushed himself up far enough to lean over the edge of the bed and pull the comforter back up onto him. He wrapped himself up in it like a cocoon and then plopped back down.  
"Oh I'm sorry." John laughed and wrapped his arms around the blanket cocoon. "Don't pout. Have you had anything to eat yet? Any water?"  
"No." Sherlock huffed angrily, leaning against his boyfriend.  
"Well we'll need to change that. Also I want to get some fever reducers in you, and don't think you're leaving this bed today. For once you are going to do as I say, got it?" John lay a few kisses on Sherlock's neck and jaw.  
"Yes, sir..." Sherlock sighed.

* * *

**Sorry for the late update, I try to update daily but sometimes you just don't write for days. **

**So to apologize today will be a three for one! Enjoy! And thank you for reviewing so much, I appreciate the feedback!**


	9. Pulling Rank

John was a soldier.  
An army doctor counted as a soldier after all, and he had been in combat.  
He liked pulling rank, it sent a thrill through him. He still remembered bandying his title about when they were sneaking into Baskerville with a sort of fondness. In fact he'd been dying for a chance to order someone around ever since, carrying with it a sort of guilty pleasure.  
So when he'd woken up that morning to see Sherlock's lab equipment spread all over the flat, the detective himself blatantly ignoring John's displeasure at the mess, he decided that it was his turn to perform one of Sherlock's infamous "social experiments".  
"What the hell is going on?" John half yawned half yelled in frustration.  
"Comparing the abilities of the acid used by the alleyway murder to the acid samples collected at Lestrade's crime scene yesterday." Sherlock replied without looking up, perched on his chair clad in his pajamas with a test tube dangling from his long pale fingers.  
"And you need your lab stuff all over the bloody flat for that?" John sighed.  
"That was from yesterday's experiment. I can't be bothered with it right now." Sherlock continued to look away from John and focus instead on his experiment. That's when John really snapped. Stomping forward he grabbed Sherlock's face and yanked it upwards.  
"Look. Me. In. The. Eyes." He growled. "I'm not some idiot you can shut up with your babbling. I deserve more respect, and you are going to give it to me right now."  
Sherlock's wide eyes were the only indicators of surprise, the rest of his body remained relaxed and unchanged from it's earlier position. Sherlock took a moment to recover and then replied as sarcastically as ever.  
"...meaning?" he asked with a bored expression.  
"I didn't give you permission to talk." John barked, and Sherlock's mouth snapped shut. "Better. Now you're going to clean up your shit in record time or else I'll punish you. Understand?" John didn't know what sort of punishment he could give to his flatmate or if he even could punish his flatmate, but hell he was on a roll and it seemed to be working because Sherlock actually leaped into action, sullenly putting lab equipment back where it belonged. Once he had finished Sherlock turned back to John with a dark yet confused expression, as if he was angry at being ordered about but confused as to how he let himself get ordered about.  
"I want it like this everyday, you got that? If you're done with something you better put it away, and I'll tell you when you're done with it without any arguments from the likes of you." John smirked slightly, a little bit embarrassed at having let his anger get out of control like that.  
His attitude seemed to be having a strange affect on Sherlock. The detective was silent for one thing and that was always strange. The detective was studying John with an intensity he'd never seen Sherlock use on him before. His eyes darted all around John as if trying to look inside him and see where this sudden dominance came from. Then Sherlock looked back into John's eyes.  
"Anything else...sir?" He replied playfully.  
Oh God that sounded good.  
John found himself longing to hear Sherlock say it again, so he asked.  
"One more time?"  
"I said, anything else...sir?" Sherlock seemed to be catching on, delightedly so in fact. "Or should I call you Captain?"  
"You'll call me what I want you to call me." John ran a hand down Sherlock's hip, eyes gleaming. "Sir will be sufficient for now."  
"What are your orders, sir?" Sherlock took extra care with that word...sir, and he held eye contact with John and let only the shadow of a smirk come over his face. John said only one word in response.  
"Now." He pulled Sherlock in close and left bite marks on his neck, silencing the detective's whimpering with a growl. The two fell onto the couch in a tangle of limbs. At first Sherlock tried to straddle John but John flipped him over and pinned his hands over his head, taking extreme pleasure at watching Sherlock pout and squirm.  
"Not today. You're going to do what I say. Now call me sir again."  
Sherlock smiled and let out a dramatically pathetic: "Sir."


	10. Save Me From My Thoughts

It was one of the rare few times where John and the usual gang could sit and talk without there being some sort of killer or thief on the loose.  
Of course the only reason Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and even Mycroft were sitting and chatting at 221B was because they'd just succeeded in catching a mass killer. Still, there were no crisis ongoing. The fact that Mycroft had stuck around was a miracle, and Molly was actually too busy talking with Mrs. Hudson to moon over Sherlock, everyone was actually just relaxing and having a good time.  
John was so busy engaging the the conversation that at first he didn't notice it, but his eyes sort of drifted over to the lonely figure of Sherlock Holmes all curled up in his armchair.  
Sherlock wasn't talking, probably wasn't even listening to what he considered the dull ramblings of the average person. Instead he just sat there silently, still clothed in his coat and scarf because he hadn't bothered taking them off when he entered the flat, chin resting on his hand and eyes staring into the distance.  
Occasionally Sherlock's face would change. A light would come into his eyes or perhaps they'd darken sadly. His mouth would flicker into a smile or his brow would furrow. John could almost see the wheels turning in his head as the detective pondered away at god knows what. Sherlock barely even noticed when John walked by and handed him a cup of tea. He took it without even looking up and then sat there clutching it, still thinking.  
People said their goodbyes and left and soon only the two Baker Street boys were left. John glanced over at Sherlock, chuckling at the detective's stoic expression. Finally he walked over and bumped against Sherlock's shoulder.  
"Must be a great daydream then?" He asked softly.  
"Hmm?" Sherlock blinked as though he'd been asleep and suddenly awakened. Then he turned to look up at John.  
"What were you thinking about anyway? Must be important." John asked, trying to hide his curiosity with a casual attitude.  
"Nothing much..." Sherlock said slowly. "Just wondering about a great many things..."  
"Sounds pretty intense." John commented.  
"My mind often finds a way of wandering into the most dismal of subjects, it's pointless to avoid them as without work to distract me they are the only things I can think of. Then I have to find solutions to these arising problems or else let them torment me." Sherlock replied as casually as one might talk about the weather.  
John frowned, with a lifestyle like his it's no wonder Sherlock was prone to a little anxiety. Especially with that great big brain always thinking, never slowing down. Of course that was why John was here. He'd decided a long time ago that even if Sherlock never returned his affections, he'd stick around if only to save the man from himself.  
John leaned down and placed a kiss on Sherlock's forehead.  
"Stop all that thinking. For right now everything's quiet and boring, you should be pouting and destroying the walls not worrying. Whatever world problems you've been conjuring up, I'll see an end to them." John grinned and then left for bed, leaving Sherlock sitting there in stunned silence.  
His John, promising to solve all the world's problems just to put his mind at ease. That man was truly incredible.  
Sherlock ran a hand over the spot where John had kissed him, and smiled.


	11. Non-Smoking Zone Part 1

His pale hands flicked the lighter out of his coat pocket with ease and grace. Lifting it to the cigarette that was clenched in his teeth, he coaxed a flame from inside it's plastic shell while shielding the flame from the wind with a spare hand.  
He took a deep breath and then let the smoke curl out of his mouth in tendrils and curls. A small satisfied albeit nervous grin reached his face.  
Sherlock really did try not to smoke, after all with both his brother and John constantly scolding him about how he treated his body it was easier to give in. Still, sometimes he slipped. It could be something as simple as just wanting a smoke without any reason at all, or it could be because he was sad or worried or bored. This time it was the worry that got to him.  
Sherlock always thought that if any of them ever got hurt it would be because of his hubris, because of his never ending puzzles. Yet all it took to pull the world out from under his feet was a stupid drunk man behind the wheel. Sherlock hadn't even been there, John had been coming home after shopping and wasn't even far from the flat when a car swerved through the street. The witnesses said that they didn't even stop, they just flew on by.  
Sherlock shifted slightly, his back was pressed against the wall and he was working his way through his third cigarette. He could hear the sirens of incoming ambulances and the night air chilled him even through his thick coat.  
"Don't you have somewhere better to be?"  
Sherlock closed his eyes so that he wouldn't roll them, then turned to face his brother.  
"Mycroft." He said more as a statement than a greeting.  
"I heard what happened. Have they let you in to see him yet?" Mycroft asked, joining his brother against the wall. Sherlock glared at Mycroft, because his brother knew the obvious answer to that question.  
"Don't pester me with casual conversation, brother. You know that I wouldn't be out here if I could be in there." Sherlock gave an angry puff of smoke, looking for all the world like a dragon with his tail in a twist. "I'd wait inside but what with it being a hospital they wouldn't let me smoke."  
"If...there's anything I can do." Mycroft choked out awkwardly, and Sherlock almost chuckled.  
"Neither of us is very good at sympathy. Let's not do this." He replied. The two Holmes brothers stood in silence for a moment, both of them observing the movement in the night. Then Mycroft turned back to Sherlock to speak again.  
"You know he'd hate to see you doing that." He commented, his voice holding a certain level of distaste.  
"Well he isn't seeing it." Sherlock took another drag which was abruptly cut off as his brother plucked it from his lips and crushed it under foot.  
"He doesn't need you acting like a child either, Sherly." Mycroft chastised, adding Sherlock's childhood pet name to further irritate him. "You know that."  
Sherlock sent his brother a withering look and folded his arms over his chest.  
"Now, why don't you head inside and see if they've made any progress, hm?" Mycroft gestured towards the doors. Sherlock took one step forward and then sighed and turned to his brother.  
"Caring is not an advantage, right?" He chuckled. "Mycroft, I'm scared."  
"I know." Mycroft replied, and Sherlock gave a small nod in his direction before he started off for the doors.


	12. Non-Smoking Zone Part 2

"You taste like an ash tray."  
Sherlock pulled back from the kiss, irritated to say the least. It was John's second day home and still the baleful looks and insults continued. The doctor had recovered well, having no huge complaints aside from cracked ribs, a broken wrist, and multiple bruises and scrapes that Sherlock found painful to look at.  
"Brilliant observation." He commented dryly, his body snapping up from a leaning position over the couch back to standing. John lay on the couch with his legs outstretched, glaring up at the detective.  
"When are you planning on not tasting like ash?" John commented passively, pretending to be absorbed in the book he clutched in the one hand that wasn't trapped in a cast. Sherlock rolled his eyes as a reply and grabbed some case files off the desk that he could pretend to be equally as absorbed in. However it didn't take very long for his fingers to start twitching and drumming an erratic pattern on the desk. He held out for a full two minutes before sighing and making a rather abashed exit to the streets below, pretending not to notice John's frustrated sigh. His hands fished out the lighter and the cigs with practiced grace, and by the time he was on the street and well out of John's judging view (which was the only reason he even bothered leaving the flat) he was taking his first drag.  
His mind was torn between that new found emotion he had labeled purely as "worry for John" and his craving when he heard John's footsteps behind him.  
"Shouldn't you be sitting very still and trying not to break anything?" Sherlock snapped, using his reaction to hide his real concern.  
"My health is not anymore important than yours." John sighed, limping towards Sherlock.  
"Of course it is, don't be ridiculous." Sherlock huffed. "I don't recall being struck by a vehicle in the past few days."  
"This always happens." John gave a small smile and leaned against Sherlock. "It does, and you know it too. Whenever one of your friends..."  
Sherlock gave a glare and a small disgruntled noise, causing John to roll his eyes.  
"Oh please. Fine, when someone that considers themselves your friend, even though you have none, gets put in danger you completely destroy yourself." He nudged against Sherlock's side gently. "You act the way you do when you get a really good case. You don't eat or sleep, you act like a real tosser, and you fall back into old habits."  
Sherlock puffed out smoke, and after a short hesitation looked down at his lover.  
"You want me to stop acting like me?" He chuckled.  
"I just want you to quit. Again. This time maybe last a little longer. I'll let you have this last smoke." John held out a waiting hand, into which after much scowling and eye rolling Sherlock deposited his cigarettes and lighter.  
"Now once you are quite done with your pestering, I'd like to get you back inside." Sherlock sighed, crushing his cigarette underfoot and almost pushing John towards the door.  
"Oi, now who's pestering?" John laughed. "I'm a soldier, I can handle walking around."  
"Of course, and that's why you needed the cane."  
"Sod off!"


	13. Too Human

**I've received word from my girlfriend that some of my less-fluffy stories have surprised her, so here's a warning: this one gets a tad racy but nothing that will scar you for life. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Sherlock, I'm home, and yes you were right you sod she did have a boyfriend. I was lucky enough to meet Charles today, sweet guy when he's not throttling you." John sighed, collapsing onto the couch. "I don't want to hear a single 'I told you so' you got that?"  
"But I did tell you so." Sherlock's voice came from the kitchen, and it sounded...strange. John pushed himself up into a sitting position and peered over at the detective. He was perched at the kitchen table in his usual stiff clothing, his knees pressed up against his chest. John searched the detective for some reason as to his voice sounding different, and then his eyes fell on the bottle of red wine sitting on the table in front of him.  
Oh my god, no way. You're kidding, but he can't...I mean that's just far too...human!  
"Well you did, but it's still rude to point it out." John decided to test him, he'd just make casual conversation for now.  
"She was clearly a whore. I don't know what you see in this endless parade of women." Sherlock pouted, and John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock never cared enough about any woman to call them a whore.  
"She wasn't that bad aside from the boyfriend bit..." John protested, walking into the kitchen and taking a seat next to Sherlock.  
"Idiot. She took advantage of you. I could have strangled her, the way she kept making excuses to touch your chest and shoulders." Sherlock growled and then took a swig from the bottle, which John knew would lead to adverse affects with normal people let alone Sherlock. What would he even do with a drunk Sherlock? What would a drunk Sherlock do? Shoot the walls? Hopefully not, his aim would be terrible and John would probably have to leap for cover.  
"Why are you so angry about that? She was my date, she was allowed a little touching." John replied casually, causing Sherlock to snap his head around.  
"John." He whined, literally, whined. "You are so unfair."  
John's cheeks heated up, why he was blushing he couldn't say but there was something about Sherlock looking so pathetic that just made his heart pound.  
"Unfair?" He repeated.  
"Yes, so unfair to me. You're dreadful." Sherlock agreed, his eyes glaring daggers at John. Right now his usually clear eyes seemed comically confused and almost wobbly. Sherlock himself looked wobbly and unsteady, and John worried that he might fall out of the chair.  
"I think I'm fair enough." He continued.  
"Oh you idiot." Sherlock's hands flew out as they normally did when he explained something that only he was clever enough to understand. At least that's what John thought he was doing, when actually Sherlock was wrapping his arms around John and leaning in to lay a sloppy kiss on the doctor's lips. Unfortunately this lead to Sherlock losing his already precarious balance and falling almost onto John's lap. John held the drunk detective around his waist to keep him from completely falling, mostly out of instinct seeing as his mind was still in shock.  
"John." Sherlock crooned, he slid his hands down to around John's hips and laid his head on John's leg. "I feel dizzy, John. Help me to bed."  
John could only oblige, lifting the thin man up without much trouble and walking him over to the bedroom. He was planning on laying Sherlock on his bed and then going to sleep so he could wake up tomorrow and pretend none of it ever happened in order to save both their prides, plans that were ruined when Sherlock pulled John down with a surprising amount of strength. Their lips collided again, this time Sherlock's tongue pried open John's lips so that he could explore the doctor's mouth. Their tongues wrestled for a bit, until John found himself short of air and came up for breath. Sherlock made a small disappointed noise and pulled John back down before the doctor had taken a second gasp of air.  
"Sherlock, what are you...?" John's question was cut off as Sherlock moaned and pressed himself against John.  
"So unfair..." He whimpered. "Do I need to act like this just to get your attention? Do I need to be like one of your girls?" Sherlock's comically confused eyes grew sad and John's heart skipped a beat.  
"Oh no, Sherlock. You always have my attention..." John swallowed heavily, giving Sherlock attention had never been something he thought about. Come to think of it, he had been dating a lot lately, and hadn't seen much of the detective. Now that he knew just how Sherlock felt about him...he could see how the man felt ignored.  
"So? Do I need to be one of those idiotic woman just to get you to look at me?" Sherlock persisted.  
"Oh shut up. You have my attention right now." John teased, nipping Sherlock on the ear. He had never really snogged a man before but...he felt like he could get used to snogging Sherlock.  
"Then why are you taking so long, you idiot?" Sherlock hissed, his breath hitching and his hips bucking ever so slightly. John took a moment to compose himself, he had to remember, Sherlock was drunk and not in the right state of mind to be making this kind of decision.  
"Sherlock...maybe we can wait." He stuttered, trying to keep himself from bucking against Sherlock's little thrusts. A part of him wanted to laugh, the great consulting detective was melting in his arms and thrusting against his leg.  
"Maybe you can shut up." Sherlock straddled John, kissing him soundly.  
"No...really, Sherlock. You're not thinking clearly, and you're the kind of man that never does anything without thinking. Thinking is what you do!" John sighed, trying to ignore the new found tightness in his pants.  
"John, let me make my own decisions." Sherlock snapped. "I decide what to regret in the morning. If this is one of those regrets so be it. So far I can't imagine it being so." Sherlock's fingers played around the edges of John's sweater until suddenly John found himself without it. Sherlock wasted no time stripping John of the t-shirt underneath as well, and then decided to marvel over John's body. His fingers searched every stretch of John's skin, pausing for a moment at the scar on his shoulder with a faint smile gracing his pale thin features. John figured it was his turn, and he unbuttoned Sherlock's dark purple top with determined grace. Sherlock may be oh so clever when it came to crime scenes, but right now it was John that held the dominant place. Sherlock was making clumsy attempts while John turned the whole thing into art.  
John left a string of hickeys on Sherlock's hips, shoulders, and neck. He was having quite a lot of fun marking Sherlock, and could only imagine how wonderful it would be when tomorrow morning Sherlock wore his scarf not as a fashion choice but because of him.  
When John woke up the next morning a part of him almost denied that the incident had ever happened. After all, drunken jealous sex was just too human to be something Sherlock would bother with.


	14. Why Do You Care So Much?

"This is just rubbish." John growled, shoving the crumpled newspaper onto the table, clearly irritated. "Who are they getting to write these things?"  
Sherlock acknowledged his friend's outrage with the barest of nods, his eyes practically glued to his microscope. He was used to John complaining about one thing or another after coming home, it seemed that the whole of London was out to make an enemy of the doctor.  
"I ought to write in and tell them everything they're writing is wrong!" John exclaimed, "Or at least tell them where they can shove their report."  
"Mm." Sherlock replied.  
"They don't even know you, I don't see how they have the right to write this shit." John sighed and grabbed the paper up again to read an excerpt for the detective's benefit. He stood and waved his hand around as he spoke, a habit he felt he was picking up from Sherlock. "Sherlock Holmes: a delusional madman. After having returned from the dead the consulting detective continues where he left off, apparently solving mysteries. However we are not convinced! Having been arrested once already on suspicion of involvement of said mysteries, how do we know we can trust this supposed genius?" John made a frustrated noise and tossed the paper back onto the table once more.  
Sherlock peered up from his microscope, tilting his head in confusion.  
"Why does it bother you so much?" he asked.  
"It would bother anyone!" John protested. "Doesn't it bother you?"  
"My social standing is only important if it prevents me from continuing my work, the boys at Scotland Yard know I'm not a criminal and that is enough. What the masses believe is unimportant." He shrugged delicate shoulders and returned to his work.  
"But, Sherlock...people should be thanking you, not accusing you!" John persisted. "I mean think about how many people you've saved!"  
"I'm not a hero, John. I don't do it to save people." Sherlock murmured.  
"Oh sod off. Pretend to be selfish, fine." John huffed, sitting back down and grabbing the paper for a third time so he could pretend to be interested in it. Sherlock eyed him up, suddenly less interested in his experiment.  
"What, do you think I'm a hero, John?" He smirked. "You shouldn't delude yourself like that."  
"Don't be an idiot." John replied. "You're a lot of things Sherlock, you're irritating, ignorant, rude, and sometimes I doubt you're even human but you're not a criminal. You're not a deluded madman either. Whether I think you're a hero or not isn't the problem, I just don't want people spreading lies about you!"  
"Why do you care so much?" Sherlock asked again, walking over to where John was seated and perched on the arm of the chair. John squirmed at Sherlock's sudden closeness.  
"I just...as a friend, I don't want you to be treated that way." He blushed. "I just want people to know how great you really are...when you're not being a dick that is."  
Sherlock stared for a minute, confused as always by human sentiment.  
"People will always talk." Sherlock began, "Most of the time what they say is just nonsense...but the entire time all the world thought I was a fraud you believed in me, and that's all I want." Sherlock leaned down and pressed a small kiss against John's forehead, lingering there with his hand on the back of John's head with his fingers tangling themselves in his hair. "You kept writing about me, and believing in me..." Sherlock pulled back and swung himself off the arm of the chair. "That's enough for me when it comes to social standing. I only really care what you think about me, John."


	15. Irresponsible

John sighed, the shirt was ruined for sure.  
He knew his mind was trying to distract him, focusing on the bloodstains instead of the actual blood seeping through Sherlock's clothing. The wounds were not fatal, but after all the consulting detective had put the doctor through that night John's anger certainly would be.  
John had seen Sherlock poisoned, stabbed, shot, strangled, suffocated, electrocuted, but never before tonight had he seen the man pushed through a window.  
Right now the sod was sitting on the pavement, reclining against one of the police vehicles while John paced nervously around him. His face was streaked with blood and bent with pain, his raven hair clashing against his pale skin. He clutched at his sides with gloved hands. Yes he still wore his gloves but he'd given his coat and scarf to John because heaven forbid he get blood on the single most important pieces of his wardrobe.  
Still, the shirt was ruined.  
John paced a bit longer, trying to decide between concern and rage. It seemed he was on the verge of chewing Sherlock out, but as it turns out he never got the chance.  
"Sherlock, I have never seen anything so irresponsible in my life!" Mycroft roared, showing a surprising amount of energy for the usually lethargic government official.  
"Don't you have some war to look after. Or a cake perhaps?" Sherlock half growled half winced.  
"Sherlock." John warned, sending his friend a strict glare which went entirely unnoticed.  
"You could have cornered this one easily enough, but you had to go for the challenge because you had to prove to everyone just how clever you are!" Mycroft raged, stabbing at the road beneath him with the tip of his umbrella.  
"Oh please, I'm a little old to get bullied by big brother." Sherlock scoffed, turning his head away.  
"We're all worried about you, you've gotten far too reckless for your own good!" The elder Holmes brother spluttered, clearly irritated by his younger brother's behavior.  
"It's not as if anyone cares." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you're the only one a bit bothered by this."  
"I'm bothered by it." John piped up quietly, causing both Holmes brothers to blink with surprise and turn his way. John's nervous face turned into a steady stare and he repeated it again, this time louder. "I'm very bothered by it."  
Sherlock studied John for a moment, then closed his eyes.  
"...You see?" Mycroft said, figuring he might as well use this to his advantage. "That makes two of us who care, and don't even pretend your housekeeper or friends in the yard won't care."  
"She's not technically our housekeeper..." John muttered.  
"Oh stop with your sentimental nonsense." Sherlock threw his hands in the air in a gesture of annoyance. "You act as if I purposefully endanger myself."  
"You might as well be. Using that big head of yours to focus on everything except your well-being." John sighed. "Just listen to your brother, he's right. You have to be more careful."  
Sherlock stood suddenly, ignoring John's protests and the intense pain running through his body. He walked up to John until he was uncomfortably close to him, staring him in the eyes.  
"So you say that you'll worry about me?" He asked.  
"...Of course, you twit." John nearly laughed with disbelief.  
"Interesting." Sherlock grinned. "I find that far less annoying than I normally do..."  
"Well good, because you can give your brother the slip and you can yell at Mrs. Hudson all you want, but you're not getting rid of me." John replied, confused as ever by Sherlock's quickly shifting moods. "Now sit back down already, be careful!"  
"As you wish." Sherlock sighed, sitting back down and leaning against the car with slow painful movements. Mycroft stared at the two of them, then rolled his eyes in lieu of a farewell and left. Sherlock sat in silence, eyelids drooping in that sleepy yet thoughtful manner of his. After a minutes pacing, John sighed and sat down next to the detective.  
"You really are an irritating sod." He murmured.  
"I know." Sherlock lay his head on John's shoulder and smiled.


	16. Dead, Defamed, Drunken

Just an after work drink, without anything spectacular happening.  
It wasn't that his life was a wreck, he didn't drink himself into oblivion every night. No, just this night. Last year Mrs. Hudson, Greg, even Mycroft had shown up, all of them trying to keep him from doing anything stupid. This year he'd managed to dodge them, and it hadn't been easy with Mycroft helping. He'd used every camera dodging technique that Sherlock had taught him, although he felt that maybe the elder and now only Holmes had just been letting him think he was clever.  
He didn't know which pub he was at, he just followed the scent of liquor and sat himself down. He was only a few drinks in when the real trouble started.

"Oi, don't mind me but, a few of the boys and I had a bet going that you're that bloke Watson." A grimy man from the lower side of town grinned a nicotine stained smile at him as he sidled up beside him at the bar. "So is it true?"  
"...yeah...that's me." John sighed reluctantly.  
"Tommy! Oi, Tommy! It's him!" The man waved to his friends, and two other men ran up, and John regretted telling the truth about his identity.  
"It's him, I was right!" The first man laughed, throwing a small punch at his friend's shoulder.  
"Oh come off it. So then, you knew that crazy bloke Sherlock Holmes?" Tommy asked, shaking John about.  
"...Yes, I knew Sherlock." John huffed through clenched teeth, trying to focus on his drink.  
"What was it like, eh?" He graced John with yet another nicotine smile. "Following him around all those years, then finding out he was some nutter kidnapping kids and killing people."  
"He didn't do those things." John clenched his fist now, trying to avoid a scene but longing to wipe the smirk off the bastard's face.  
"Yeah he did! I saw it on the news!" Tommy piped up, and the other two nodded their agreement. "Did he really fool you that bad?"  
"Nah, probably just bribed him. You saw how they got along, bet they were having a bit of shag now and then to keep the blogger quiet."  
That was when Mr. Smoker's Smile lost one of his disgusting teeth to John's fist.

One drunken fight later John was left in the cold night air, stumbling down the street. Blood dripped from his nose, and his limp was back but that was mostly emotional anyway. He was the fittest one that walked away from the fight.  
"Let me help." A soft voice floated on the wind and registered just barely in John's mind. Then an arm was around him, pulling him up and helping him walk. John leaned against the stranger, chuckling slightly.  
"Don't need any help, mate." He said bitterly.  
"That's not what it looks like from here." The man replied. They walked in silence a few more streets, then John realized they were walking up the steps to his flat.  
"Hey...how did you know where I live?" John asked, but when he turned around there was no longer a hand on his back guiding him. The man had vanished. John stared into the night, then turned to limp into his house.

Across the street, Sherlock stared after the soldier with a concerned look on his face.


	17. Too Worried To Focus

He was yawning again, pressing a fist against his mouth to muffle the noise.  
Last night Sherlock had sat outside John's room, listening to the ex-army doctor wake up screaming, lacking enough courage to walk in and try to comfort him. So now John stood next to the crime scene looking like one of the living dead, dark circles under his eyes and yawns creasing his face.  
"Sherlock." Lestrade was breaking his train of thought, how irritating. Clearly he wanted him to focus on the dead body on the street in front of them, but that was pointless when he already knew exactly how the man died. Why was the D.I. wasting his time with this when he had more important things to focus on?  
"Sherlock, any time you want to join us." Lestrade sighed, rolling his eyes. Putting on a show because he'd just convinced everyone it was okay to let Sherlock back on their cases after the latest great scandal involving a visiting diplomat.  
Sherlock stared at the body, knelt down and examined it from toe-tip to head. He dug around in the corpse's pockets, examined the wedding ring on his finger, then stood again.  
"John." He called, and the gathered members of the force held their breath in expectation of another miraculous Holmes verdict.  
John blinked sleepily and turned to the pale thin detective expectantly. Sherlock walked over and clasped his hands around John's arm.  
"Let me get you out of the cold, doctor." He stated.  
"Oi! Wait a minute what about the murder victim?" Lestrade shouted.  
"Don't dwell in the past, detective inspector." Sherlock smirked. "You want the sister. Now I have more important things to deal with." He wrapped his hands tighter around John's arm and led him a little ways away.  
"What was that about?" John asked, too tired to wonder at why he was letting Sherlock drag him around. "You never walk away from a crime scene, even if you solve it in five seconds you drag it out and make everyone sweat."  
"Never mind that. Are you cold?"  
"Am I...?" John's eyes widened with surprise. "Well...yes, but..."  
"Here." Sherlock took off his coat and placed it around John's shoulders. "Until we get home."  
"Sherlock, are you feeling alright?" John asked, trying to keep from tripping on the long coat. Sherlock looked down at John with those dark perceptive eyes.  
"Yes, and you?" He asked, even though he could already tell just by looking at him that John was not feeling alright.  
"Fine...I'm more worried about you, walking off from a crime scene and giving up your coat. Do you have a fever?" John laughed.  
"John..." Sherlock wrapped an arm around the doctor's shoulder.  
"God, Sherlock...You do realize that Lestrade is over there watching us right?" John laughed. "You're supposed to be investigating but you're over here doting on me!"  
"I don't care if he watches." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And you need some doting."  
"Right..." John blushed.  
"Home then?" Sherlock tilted his head.  
"Home sounds lovely..." John tried to keep another yawn from escaping, but it forced itself past his lips.  
Sherlock let his hand brush against John's, wishing he had the courage to just hold his hand and lead him home where he could hold him until the nightmares went away.  
"Home it is." He said simply.


	18. Comes Marching Home

He was on his toes again, as if he wasn't tall enough already, staring at the constantly moving crowd of people. Mycroft chuckled at his brother's antics, one could compare Sherlock to a bloodhound hot on the scent. Normally this was a look he reserved for a particularly interesting problem. However it wasn't a criminal that Sherlock was after this time.  
"It's late." Sherlock huffed, storming back to where Mycroft sat on one of the many benches spread out within the airport. His long dramatic coat billowing out behind him.  
"Heaven forbid a world come to be where everyone has your hyperactive schedule, Sherlock." Mycroft teased fondly, causing his brother to raise an eyebrow.  
"The plane was supposed to be here by now." He replied. "Yet there is a disturbing lack of plane."  
"Calm down." Mycroft scolded. "You wouldn't want to look too nervous."  
Sherlock gave a distracted nod but kept pacing anyway. His hands were never still, they kept fidgeting with each other until he shoved them into his pockets. He paced a moment longer and then turned on his brother.  
"I need a smoke." He growled.  
"I can't cover for you forever. I won't tell him how badly you fell off the wagon while he was gone but if you show up smelling like tar there's not much I can do." Mycroft sighed, glancing at his watch.  
"Then give me a cigarette and some gum!" Sherlock insisted.  
"Honestly...can you just wait patiently like a normal human being? No, wait, don't answer that." Mycroft sighed. Sherlock, who had his mouth open to prepare a retort, promptly closed it.  
"Now sit down and behave or I'll tie you to your seat like I did when you were nine." Mycroft scowled.  
"Oh don't bring that up." Sherlock sat down next to Mycroft. "I could never get away with anything, not even a simple treasure hunt."  
"Nothing was simple with you." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Especially not treasure hunts."  
Sherlock had stopped listening, he was staring off into the distance. Then, he suddenly leapt up from his seat and went running off into the crowd.  
"So much energy..." Mycroft groaned, allowing his scowl to turn into a small grin.  
Sherlock raced past vacation goers and business trip takers, ignoring the protests whenever one of his sharp elbows found its way into someone's ribs. He stopped, his breath catching in his throat, and his lips forming a name.  
"John!" He shouted, running towards the returning soldier.  
It was his John, albeit lankier and a bit more scruffy looking. Sherlock could count more than a few new scars, and he didn't like how thin and tired looking he'd gotten, but it was his John all the same.  
He grabbed the smaller man and spun him around, for a full fifteen seconds John's feet left the ground.  
"S-Sherlock!" John laughed, barely able to talk around the man's embrace. "Put me down!"  
"John." Sherlock nuzzled into John's shoulder, only wrapping his arms tighter around the doctor.  
"Yes, I'm home." John chuckled, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Were you good while I was away?"  
"No." Sherlock muttered around the fabric of John's uniform, and John swore he heard him sniffle. "I was dreadful."  
"Knew I couldn't expect anything else." John placed a kiss in the detective's curly black locks. It appeared that he'd let his hair get longer without John around to pester him about getting it cut. Sherlock raised his head off of John's shoulder and John kissed him.  
"Now let's get home. I'd kill for some tea and some time alone with you." John chuckled.

* * *

**Thanks so much to all my reviewers, remember tell me what you think and feel free to leave suggestions for stories you might want to see. I'm always looking for inspiration. Enjoy!**


	19. Dead, Defamed, Drunken: Epilogue

"He spends a lot of time at work..."  
The rain was drip drip dripping a steady beat against the roof, matched only in pace by the beat of Sherlock's pale thin fingers tapping against the arm of the chair.  
"Mm."  
"Doesn't do much besides that. He's stopped dating."  
"Hm."  
"You know the way you were pestering me for information I assumed you actually cared." The elder Holmes straightened up in his chair. He could tell from his brother's half-lidded eyes and distracted mannerisims that he was indeed thinking about the topic of their conversation, but that didn't mean he was going to let him get away with bad manners.  
Sherlock looked up at his brother, rolled his eyes and sighed.  
"I'm sorry. Would you prefer 'oh dear brother, please continue I do so ever love the sound of your voice'?" He snarled.  
"I'd prefer a better acknowledgment, yes." Mycroft's mouth was a pin straight line of disapproval. "Of course I don't really think I need to tell you about John, considering last night's events..."  
"Would you prefer I had let him stumble drunkenly into moving traffic?" Sherlock's voice took on a protective growl.  
"I'd prefer you'd let me watch him like I did last year." Mycroft replied. "We had him under control. You let him knock a man's teeth in and drink half his weight in alcohol."  
"Well what was I supposed to do?" Sherlock leapt out of his chair, the man resembled a starving wolf with his pale features, dark eyes, and sharp cheekbones. "Walk right up to him and say 'oh hullo, I'm not dead so please don't start trouble'? No, because I can't do that, because there's still one last man out there with a target on our heads!"  
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. Being on the run, or at the chase as it were, had caused his brother to regress back into a more violent and angry person. Sometimes he wondered what it was about the doctor that calmed his brother so, other times his scientific curiosity paled in comparison to the admiration he felt for the man that tamed the younger Holmes.  
"I'm not your keeper, Sherlock. Whatever stupid decisions you make are on your head. By all means." Mycroft sighed. "Just remember, Sebastian Moran is out there. What you decide to do, take him into account."  
"I need air." Sherlock hissed, and he was gone with the slam of a door.

Being in disguise meant Sherlock had to make a few sacrifices. Although he refused to change his hair, he had exchanged his usual coat and scarf for a dark blue hooded jacket and a pair of jeans. It irritated him having to dress so below his usual style, but being one of the most famous men in London meant he needed to change it up.  
It was still raining, so he was grateful for the hood over his head. With nothing else to do besides go back and face Mycroft he opted for a more preferable pastime: chain smoking, and looking for John.  
It was the third pack of cigarettes he'd tried to smuggle into Mycroft's house, and had only gotten away with it by hiding it on his person. His brother had already threatened rehab if he returned to more dangerous vices, so he'd taken extra precaution with this slightly less threatening habit. As he smoked he walked the steps of John's schedule, stopping by his new flat, the surgery where he worked, restaurants he visited.  
Three cigarettes and countless scowls later, John was still nowhere to be seen. Sherlock had nearly given up, until he found himself hovering around the cemetery where he was "buried".  
He wouldn't be here...would he...? He thought to himself. Perhaps. He is so different from me, this would matter to him.  
He forced himself past the invisible barrier that had for so long kept him from returning to this spot, a spot where years ago he'd heard John ask for one more miracle. A miracle that whether John knew it or not, he had delivered.  
"I'm late. I know. Of course you usually didn't notice when I was away anyways. You just kept on talking."  
Sherlock froze at the sound of John's voice, ducking behind a large headstone and tucking his knees up under his chin, showing a surprising amount of flexibility.  
"Yep. I always came home, and you were there asking me for your phone for the fourth time...it was always right next to your arm you lazy git." John gave a sad chuckle. "You could only exert energy when it was involved with a case. Of course when it came to practical things like eating or sleeping you couldn't be bothered."  
Sherlock's heart was pounding with the thrill of being caught, and he found himself unable to retreat to a safer distance. He wouldn't be able to hear what John was saying unless he was close by, so he stayed.  
"Last night, I took on a few blokes. I'm not going to lie, it was nice to have some action again." John smirked for a second before it turned into a frown again. "They said some awful things about you...those things you tried to make me believe, trying to keep me from missing you when you were gone..." There was a small sniffle and then John continued. "I thought for a second...last night..."  
John's face grew confused and sad, and he stared down at the ersatz grave.  
"I thought I saw you...but I'll never see you again. That's what makes me sad is that I'll never see you playing violin at ungodly hours, never see you blowing up our kitchen with your experiments, never see you ruining the walls with my pistol, never see you smirk or frown or grin like your heart might burst with excitement...I'll never see you again and that's what's rotten about all this is that I just found out that I love you Sherlock Holmes." John wiped at his eyes. "Yeah...well...next year...you sod." He turned, about to leave.  
Sherlock's breath was caught in his throat, and his body filled with the same nervous excitement as it did when he saw a crime scene. He stood up, pulled down his hood and spoke.  
"One more miracle?"

* * *

**I really didn't mean for this one to be a two-parter but I got requests for more post Reichenbach and it ended up like this. **

**Thank you all so much for reviewing. Enjoy!**


	20. Hold My Hand Part 1

"They are the single most idiotic excuse for a police force I have ever seen!" Sherlock stormed into the house, flinging himself onto the couch with an angry growl.  
"Their hands are tied, Sherlock. Without a warrant there's nothing else they can do." John sighed. Today had just gone from bad to worse, he was just about ready to crawl into bed. He stalked into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea while Sherlock continued to yell.  
Earlier that week a Miss Eva Blackwall had come to 221B begging for help. Apparently she was the latest victim of notorious blackmailer Charlie Milverton. She told them that he had hacked into her email address and made copies of some of her messages, messages that if read by her fiance would destroy their marriage. She said nothing more than that, clearly not wanting anyone else in on her little secret.  
John expected Sherlock to pass this one up, it seemed like a normal boring "help me with my marriage isn't that what private investigators do?" type of case. Yet to his surprise Sherlock had leapt to his feet with a look close to fury.  
"Milverton is quite possibly the worst man I have ever had the joy of meeting." He had told John. "I've met murderers, smugglers, drug dealers...don't give me that look John...and thieves of all kinds but he's still the worst."  
So Sherlock had accepted the case, even tried to negotiate with Milverton, and when that failed he'd just insisted on using Lestrade.  
"We may as well." He shrugged. "It's not an interesting case, I just want to see Charles suffer. Why not make the police useful for once?"  
Then, that had failed.  
"Honestly, they won't leap on any problem without a cold body." Sherlock sulked, sitting on the couch with his knees drawn up to his chest, still clothed in his coat, scarf, and shoes.  
"Sounds familiar." John rolled his eyes, flopping down next to Sherlock. He slid off his shoes and grabbed the tv remote to flick through the channels until he found something mind numbing that could drown out Sherlock's ranting.  
He'd only been watching for five minutes when Sherlock turned to him.  
"John."  
"Yes, what?"  
"How would you like to be my best man?"  
John choked on his tea, just managing to avoid spitting it across the room. After quite a bit of coughing John glanced up to see Sherlock looking at him with mild amusement.  
"W-what did you say?" John asked, not believing his ears.  
"Well? In the mood for a wedding?" Sherlock was smirking now, enjoying his little joke. Or at least John hoped it was a joke. It had to be a joke, because this was Sherlock Holmes, he would never even have a girlfriend let alone a wedding. In fact this was the one thing John held on to whenever his heart leapt at the sight of his gorgeous flatmate. If he couldn't have him at least no other would.  
"A...wedding?" John asked, still in shock.  
"Well you see, I've been spending some time with an Emily Georgeson lately." Sherlock smiled. "She's employed as a maid. At the house of Charlie Milverton. She's quite taken with me, so much in fact that I was able to learn quite a lot about Charlie's everyday life."  
"You...?" John's mouth was still hanging open.  
"I ended up having to propose to her. Unfortunately I have a hated rival due to show up and ruin the engagement any day now." Sherlock stood with a smirk and adjusted his coat like a bird might preen. "Now then, Charlie should be out tonight for his AA meeting, and because news has spread of the police being unable to obtain a warrant he will be off his guard. Fancy a break-in?"  
"You...proposed to a girl...to figure out when Milverton would leave the house?" John pressed a hand to his forehead.  
"Yes, we've been over that." Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"And now you want to break into his house and steal back the blackmail?" John sighed, rubbing his eyes. He was so not going to sleep tonight.  
"Yes. I understand that this is illegal business and that if we're caught it will most likely hurt your reputation." Sherlock shuffled his feet as he spoke, uncharacteristically nervous. "I suppose you wouldn't want to ruin your chances of finding work by having to list being convicted of a crime...but I would be honored if you came with me."  
"Well of course I'm coming with you." John sighed, pushing his shoes back on his feet. "Because otherwise you'll do something stupid. Come on then."  
Sherlock never cried out "brilliant!" or "amazing!" the way John did, but his eyes did take on a look that said it for him when John agreed to coming without even thinking twice. The doctor had become a reliable partner for him ever since they'd met, and Sherlock knew that John's loyalty had saved his life on many accounts. Hopefully this time John's loyalty didn't get him arrested.

"You're sure no one else is here?" John's breath fogged the air, and he looked around nervously as he spoke. Sherlock was bent over the doorknob to the back door with a lock picking kit that John knew he had to confiscate as soon as this was over.  
"Of course." Sherlock sighed. "Trust me."  
The door sprang open and Sherlock beckoned the doctor inside.  
"The thumbdrive we're looking for is upstairs in his safe. It holds a lot more than just Miss Blackwell's emails. You wouldn't believe how many lives he's ruining." Sherlock scowled. John studied his friend closely, wondering why this would bother him so much. He looked upon murders with glee and thefts with joy, so what made blackmail so despicable? He made a mental note to ask Mycroft later, after all whenever you found something odd with Sherlock (barring his normal oddness) you went to the elder Holmes for answers.  
The two partners in crime crept through the house, Sherlock leading John into Milverton's study. The room was dark, but John could see well enough. He stood at the doorway, watching and listening for movement while Sherlock removed a rather ostentatious picture from the wall which hid a safe.  
"Like we haven't seen that before." John chuckled, thinking of the time Irene thought she could keep her locked up blackmail safe from the great Sherlock Holmes.  
Sherlock wasted no time dialing away the code. When John shot him a questioning glance he smirked.  
"My new fiancee is a maid remember? There are few maids in the world that are not privy to their master's secrets."  
John blushed and rolled his eyes, remembering how only moments before he was jealous of Sherlock's mystery woman.  
Suddenly the sound of a door opening echoed through the house and the voice of a man and a woman followed. Sherlock swore, grabbing John and ducking behind the only available hiding spot: the curtain.  
This is insane! We're robbing a man, hiding behind a curtain like a bunch of kids playing hide and seek! He'll see us!  
The two unfortunate thieves were pressed together behind the curtain, the sounds of nighttime seeping through the window behind them. The far more threatening sound of footsteps was drawing nearer.  
"...You've come to do business, yes?" The unmistakable voice of Charlie Milverton appeared in the air. John must have given some sign of his terror because suddenly Sherlock's hand was in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. John's heart pounded, because at this sudden touch he realized just how close he was to Sherlock right now. The two of them were pressed together with Sherlock's chest on John's back, one of Sherlock's hand was on his shoulder and the other was...well he was holding it!  
"I have some information on my boss, something I know she would pay greatly to have kept secret." Said the woman's voice.  
"By all means don't keep me waiting." Charlie replied with some humor in his voice.  
"Alright. If you don't want to wait, then I'll end the charade." The woman growled.  
Sherlock parted the curtain ever so slightly, giving him and John a view of the happenings of the room. It appeared that the woman had drawn a gun from her purse and was now pressing it to Charlie's forehead.  
"What are you doing?" The blackmailer squirmed, his eyes wide in fear and his voice trembling.  
"You ruined my life you son of a bitch." The woman hissed through clenched teeth. "I was due for a promotion, my husband and I were going to have a family, then you ruined it all! My husband left me and I got fired! I have nothing! You stole my life from me and now I'm going to steal yours."  
"Please! Don't!" Milverton screamed, but the woman just glared coldly down at him. Then there was a gunshot, and the walls were painted with Milverton's blood.  
The woman placed the gun back in her purse, took one last look at her victim and then fled from the house.  
John let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "We have to get out of here." He opened the window, intending to leap from it when he noticed that Sherlock had pushed past him to get back into the room.  
"What are you doing? She just killed him, we have to get out of here before we take the fall for her!" John hissed.  
Sherlock ignored him and continued opening the safe. He withdrew the thumbdrive from inside it and pocketed it. By this point John could hear someone, most likely a curious neighboer, pounding on the door asking if everyone was alright.  
Sherlock ran to the window and made an 'after you' gesture with a wry smile. John laughed from the thrill of it all and the two dropped into the night.  
"Hey! There's someone over there!"  
John swore and started running. Sherlock had already left him behind, running far ahead with an ease that didn't come to the soldier with the limp. However once Sherlock realized that John was falling behind he ran back and grabbed his hand for the second time that night, and together the two of them ran off into the night.

* * *

**Modernized this one from memory so hopefully there are no errors. Go ahead and read this one: The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton, sometime because it's canon. Sherlock and Watson break into a house to hold hands. **

**Due to the popularity of Dead, Defamed, Drunken I will be creating a follow up story called "One More Miracle". Keep an eye out for it, with any luck I should publish the first chapter in the next few days. **


	21. Hold My Hand Part 2

Another normal morning dawned on 221B, well relatively normal considering who lived there.

John woke up and made tea. Sherlock hadn't slept last night and so had been on the couch by that point, plucking absentmindedly at his violin. John attempted to coax Sherlock into some breakfast, Sherlock replied by setting off a small explosion in the kitchen.

After all, one would never expect the infamous Holmes and Watson to be fazed by witnessing a murder.

John was seated in his armchair, still in his bathrobe and sipping his tea, when Lestrade popped in.

"Got another one for you two." The D.I. sighed, and John felt pride well up in his chest. Lestrade had started posing his cases not just to Sherlock, but to Sherlock and John as a unit. In fact this is how most people treated them was as one unit, two halves of a whole.

Sherlock's head appeared in the kitchen doorway, half sulking from having been ordered to clean up the mess his "controlled explosion" had caused. There was still an order pending about eating for once like a normal human being but John wasn't getting his hopes up.

"What is it this time?" He asked, clearly interested in another case to distract himself with.

"Murder. The murder of one Mr. Milverton to be exact, the only lead we have is from the neighbors and it's not much to go on."

Sherlock and John shared a look, then Sherlock turned back to Lestrade wearing a mask of interest.

"Well go on, what's this lead?" he asked.

"They say they saw two men running from the scene, they didn't get a good look at the first one they just said he was very tall. They said the second was shorter and stockier with sort of dusty colored hair." Lestrade peered at the detective that so often made something out of nothing, hopefully he could shine some light on this.

Sherlock gave the barest smirk, and hesitated a moment before replying.

"Why, Lestrade!" He said. "That doesn't give me anything to work with! Such basic descriptions! Why that second one could be a description of John!"

John nearly choked on his tea trying not to laugh, and managed to hide it with a well placed cough. Sherlock's smirk grew a little wider but he hid it once the D.I.'s attention was turned back to him.

"Yeah, it could be. Sorry for wasting your time. Honestly some of these things just slip through the cracks..." Lestrade stood with a sigh and gave a halfhearted wave before departing.

As soon as Lestrade had left the room the two men turned to each other and erupted into laughter.

"Could be a description of me?" John laughed. "Trying to get me arrested on murder charges are you?"

"Oh please nothing you haven't risked before." Sherlock rolled his eyes but his smirk continued.

"So I guess we're not turning in that woman?" John asked.

"No, I should think not." Sherlock replied. "Justice comes in many forms, it just so happened to come in the form of a murder last night." He shrugged. "In this case I hold nothing against her."

John nodded, remembering the night he had killed the cab driver to save Sherlock's life. He could sympathize with the woman.

Sherlock was clearly hoping that John had forgotten about his explosion cleaning duties, he lingered in the living room taking a place on the couch. He put the palms of his hands together and rested his hands against his lips, taking on one of the customary Holmes thinking poses. John studied those hands, and then stretched out his own thinking about the other thing that happened last night.

He could still feel Sherlock's hand in his, the pale thin fingers interlocking with his. His heart started pounding and he almost winced. All he wanted was to hold that hand again.

Sherlock looked up and noticed that John was staring at his own hand, he raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

John started, then lowered his hand.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine." He nodded, covering his embarrassment with a nervous smile.

Sherlock looked at John's hand, then his face, then his own hands, seemingly connecting the dots of John's train of thought.

"John..." He asked. "Are you sure everything is alright? Did you injure your hand last night?" The question was innocent and concerned enough, but John knew that if he had been hurt Sherlock would have known about it instantly. He was probing for a real answer by using a fake question.

"I'm alright, Sherlock!" He insisted. "Really!"

Sherlock leaned forward and slowly took John's hand in his own. John blushed and that caused Sherlock to smile triumphantly.

"So, that's it." He allowed their hands to come together and then placed a feathery kiss on the back of John's hand. "Behind the curtain last night, your heart rate was elevated. I thought it was from fear of being caught...was it something else?"

John stared into those amazing eyes, wishing he could disappear. Then he sighed.

"Maybe I'll tell you. If you go eat a real breakfast, and promise to sleep tonight!" He adopted a more authoritative tone, removing his hand from Sherlock's so that he could cross his arms over his chest.

"Of course." Sherlock smiled and stood to walk to the kitchen. Halfway there he stopped and turned back to John. "As long as I sleep in your bed of course."


	22. Comes Marching Home: Epilogue

**Teshka asked: Could you possibly do another one like it where they meet at the airport, and then go home and John has been gone for so long that Sherlock has gotten used to him being gone, but he's home now, and that makes Sherlock immensely happy when he does something and John reacts to it?**

**Hope I got it right, enjoy!**

* * *

Morning.

Sherlock stretched, having been in the same position for most of the night. That position being bent over a microscope.

He decided that a full night was enough work for now and decided that some strong tea was in order. He went into the kitchen and attempted to make some, still not used to making his own tea in John's absence. As the water boiled he strolled back into the living room and grabbed up violin and bow to play a few absentminded notes, closing his eyes in concentration.

"Morning. Did you sleep at all last night?"

Sherlock nearly dropped his violin.

John stood in front of the stairs wearing a bathrobe and a bemused smile. He ran a hand through his bedhead and gave Sherlock a look that made the detective's heart pound. He stood there for a few minutes before it really registered that John had asked him a question.

"Um...No..." He muttered, staring at his brave soldier with a look of awe.

"Forgot I was here did you?" John chuckled and came to Sherlock's side resting his hands on his shoulder and placing a kiss on his cheek.

"Of course not." Sherlock huffed. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Uh huh. Oh Sherlock, what is this?" John sighed with frustration staring at the warzone their flat had become while he was gone. Case papers strewn about, some of them attached to the walls with forks or knives. A pillow and blanket graced the couch, letting John know two things: one being that Sherlock managed to keep his promise of sleeping enough to not pass out while John was gone and two being that he had refused to sleep in their bed while John was away. Which was cute but only added to the mess.

"Just let the place go to hell, then?" John folded his arms over his chest and displayed a face of displeasure, and Sherlock wanted to kiss him. Oh how he had missed this. He'd missed John stumbling into the room in the morning, he missed John sitting next to him on the couch and holding his hand, and he missed John yelling at him whenever he did something..."wrong".

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and nuzzled into his hair, breathing in his scent.

"Hey! Are you trying to distract me? Oi, Sherlock I'm pretty mad about this!" John started out angry but couldn't help the chuckle at the end of his sentence.

"I know." Sherlock smiled.

John rolled his eyes and then walked over to the wall, gesturing to Sherlock's handiwork.

"Forks? Really? Forks. Sherlock we eat with these. Or at least I eat with these. You better have been eating well while I was gone. Apparently not though by the state of these forks." John fumed, yanking the forks out of the wall and letting the case files that they had stabbed fall to the floor.

Yes, it was good having John back.

All day Sherlock felt this warm happiness inside him, all for the smallest things The small things he had missed when John wasn't there.

A mug of tea was placed at his elbow, Sherlock glanced up and there was John giving him a small smile. Sherlock wrapped his thin fingers around John's wrist and pulled him in for a deep thank you kiss.

John found the pack of cigarettes in the pocket of Sherlock's coat and chewed him out for a full fifteen minutes. Sherlock just sat, listened, and hid a small smile.

Sherlock got a text from Lestrade asking him to come check out a crime scene. He'd thrown on his coat and was just about to leave when John shows up at his arm asking who got murdered this time.

The best part though, was that night when Sherlock was curled up on the couch with John's laptop. John walked by, rolling his eyes at the usual lack of respect for other people's things. Then he'd closed the laptop and pulled Sherlock up to lead him to bed.

"I've spent too long sleeping in ditches to spend another night sleeping without you in my bed." He remarked. He supposed that Sherlock staying up the night prior was his way of keeping guard over John, but he wasn't having another night of it.

Sherlock grinned and let himself be pulled under the blankets. He wrapped his arms around the doctor and let his lips fall onto the stretch of skin between John's neck and shoulder.

"You won't be going back to work soon...right?" Sherlock asked.

"I could take some time off. I only just came home." John chuckled.

"Good." Sherlock's arms tightened around John, and the soldier turned to face him.

"You know you were giving me the weirdest look all day. You looked like you were half in a dream." John put a small kiss on Sherlock's mouth. "Did I do something wrong?"


	23. Jealousy

"Who are you texting?"  
Sherlock stuck his head over John's shoulder. Having completely ignored John for the past hour and a half in favor of his experiments and violin this sudden change from passive to inquisitive surprised the doctor.  
"Just a friend from work. We're thinking about getting a big group together and going out tonight." John replied.  
"Oh." And with that short conversation over Sherlock was back to ignoring his boyfriend, walking about the room with his violin perched under his chin.  
John shrugged, blaming the whole thing on the traditional Holmes oddness. He turned back to his phone and not two texts later Sherlock was at his side again.  
"I'm going to need you tonight." He said suddenly.  
"Well that's too bad because I told you I'm going out." John remained unfazed, not even looking up at the detective.  
"It's important, John. I think drinks can wait." Sherlock scowled, twirling on his heel so that his blue dressing gown resembled the dress of a dancer.  
"What's so important?" John sighed. He had been in a good mood all day until now. He was really getting along with the blokes from work, and he wasn't about to add them to the list of people he would never see again because of Sherlock.  
"We're after a suspect tonight. It's one of the murder cases I've been following. He frequents a Chinese restaurant nearby. We'll go there and see if we can spot him and tail him from there." Sherlock explained.  
"Can't you go by yourself?" John felt that familiar frustration building up in him. The man couldn't let him have one night. Why couldn't the world stop committing crimes long enough for him to hit up a pub with his friends?  
"John." Sherlock gave him a hard stare. Or as John liked to call it his 'even if you argue I will win' stare.  
John sighed, and cancelled his plans.

"No sign of him. Of course." John huffed, half limping half stomping his way up the stairs.  
"There was only a sixty percent chance of his showing up." Sherlock replied, doing that annoying thing where he pressed himself up against the wall to slide past whoever was in front of him on the stairs. John resisted the urge to trip the man he loved.  
"Still. You did have a good time, right John?" Sherlock persisted, walking through the doorway and hanging up his coat with a flourish.  
"Well yes. Still." John sighed and then gave Sherlock a kiss on the cheek. "I expect all future criminals to be polite enough to check if I have plans before pulling me out to goose chases."

Unfortunately for John that wasn't the last instance in which he had to cancel his plans to follow the tracks of some murderer or another. His friends were starting to wonder if he had been avoiding them, and he had to plead insanity (insanity of his flatmate) to get them to see reason.  
The fifth time John was dragged out and yet again no murderer appeared, John began to get suspicious. He was no Sherlock Holmes, but he could tell when the detective was up to something and right now Sherlock was practically swimming in deceit. If Sherlock had some problem, it was John's job to get to the bottom of it. So he decided to confront him.  
John sat down next to Sherlock on the couch, he attempted to look relaxed but his frustration was clearly written on his face.  
"Sherlock..." He sighed, and the pale detective looked up from his (John's) laptop.  
"Yes, John?" He asked innocently.  
"Do you want to tell me why we've been chasing fake criminals all around London?"  
Sherlock froze, although he managed to keep himself from looking nervous or found out.  
"I don't understand." He replied.  
"No, I think you do and you just aren't telling me." John said slowly, putting his hand on Sherlock's. "Just tell me."  
Sherlock eyed up the opposite wall for a few seconds, then studied his feet.  
"...You're mine." He whispered.  
"...Excuse me?" John's voice wasn't angry exactly, but it wasn't pleased either.  
Sherlock jerked his head back around to face John, his eyes looking dominant and almost furious.  
"I don't like them, John! They take you away so often! They don't let me have any time with you anymore!" Sherlock pouted, looking like a child that had his favorite toy taken away. John didn't know if he liked being Sherlock's "toy". Still he had to admit that this possesivness was a little bit cute...albeit innapropriate and annoying...  
Clearly Sherlock had never been in a relationship before and so was hitting the jealous high schooler phase a little late in life. John needed to fix this.  
"Sherlock...I need to go out with my friends from time to time..." He started, stroking his thumb against Sherlock's hand. "That doesn't mean I love you any less, and it doesn't mean I won't come home to you when it's all over..."  
Sherlock tried to avoid eye contact, John suspected he was starting to blush.  
"Hey. I spend so much time with you, and there are things I do with you that I would never do with anyone else. Giggling at a crime scene? That's just us."  
Sherlock's mouth twitched into a small smile. Then he sighed and wrapped his arms around John.  
"I still don't like it. I need you." He huffed angrily.  
"Of course you sod. I need you too." John laughed, rolling his eyes and kissing his ridiculous boyfriend.


	24. Committed Part 1

"Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"  
Sherlock noticed that his therapist had taken off his wedding ring. Another fight with his wife then. She must have spent the night with her mistress again. He filed this information away to use as a caustic response later.  
"Sherlock? I can only help you if you talk to me." Dr. Kenning persisted.  
"I think if you talked to me you would find evidence of sociopathy. Also some paranoia, and the basic mental capacity of an addict. If I can tell you these things then why do you feel the need to probe my brain for them?" Sherlock sighed rolling his eyes and avoiding eye contact with the man sitting on the other side of the room. He pushed himself up in the chair to perch on the seat, not just because this was his favorite position but also because he knew this irritated his therapist.  
To his credit Dr. Kenning managed to avoid a comment about how Sherlock's shoes were ruining the furniture and moved on.  
"Well this session isn't about finding your problems so much as it is about resolving them." Sherlock gave another eye roll and found something fascinating to look at out the window.  
"Why don't you talk about your withdrawal? Was there anything you found concerning?" Kenning suggested.  
Sherlock thought about the hours of shivering and vomiting. The pain that racked his body and the constant craving for what he was told nearly killed him. He thought about being poked and prodded by nurses and doctors, all of them idiots. There was only one doctor he trusted with his health. Well, had trusted.  
"I...rather not." He shook his head slowly.  
"Alright...we don't need to push it...why don't we talk about your family? Your brother Mycroft? Or maybe we can talk about John?" Kenning asked.  
Sherlock froze, looked at the floor.  
"...I...would like to talk about John..."  
Dr. Kenning studied his patient, the usually sarcastic and unresponsive man only responded when he mentioned his friend John. He'd decided early on when their sessions first began to explore what it was that made John Watson so important.  
"Alright. What do you want to talk about?" He asked, trying to coax the detective into conversation.  
Sherlock shrugged.  
"Should we talk about how he helped you get here?"  
There was a negative head shake.  
"How about the work?"  
"...John was always an invaluable resource to me. Although his knowledge was commonplace he had this way of inspiring brilliance in others." Sherlock tapped his fingers against the arms of the chair in a random rhythm. "He was quite possibly the only person ever to get close to me. It was a mistake I can see that now."  
"Why would it be a mistake?" Kenning asked.  
"A bit obvious don't you think? No one can get close to me. Not even John." Sherlock scowled. "Anyone that gets close to me only ends up hurting themselves or hurting me."  
Kenning chewed his bottom lip. In his opinion, this was the hardest part. Convincing people that the only reason their friends and family did what they did, was because they cared.  
"Well...Let's end this season for today." Kenning sighed. "One of the nurses will come by soon to escort you back to your room."  
Sherlock nodded vaguely, seeming to be caught up in some fantasy. His eyes were distant. Soon one of the nurses came into the room, when she did Sherlock regained his alert attitude and turned back to his therapist.  
"Dr. Kenning, perhaps you should try bringing out your feminine side." He said with a smirk.  
"Excuse me?" The therapist asked with confusion.  
"Your wife. She's not with another man. No amount of marriage counseling will cure her differing sexuality." Then with a wink Sherlock had left the room with the nurse trailing behind.  
Kenning closed his gaping mouth and shook his head. Sherlock Holmes was possibly the biggest jackass of an addict that had ever been committed to the Victoria Rehabilitation Centre.

Dividing up ownership of various furniture and dish sets was not what most people considered a good time, and John Watson was far over it by this point. The many trials and tribulations of divorce seemed to be taking up more of his time than his actual marriage ever had.  
In a way he was glad that both Mary and him had a chance to move on. It had been wonderful living with her but now there was just no way they could live together.  
Still, he'd leave her everything they'd ever owned if it meant less of this.  
He sighed and stretched out his back as he walked, admiring the London air in a way that only a man trapped indoors with a soon to be ex-wife and a lawyer could. He hadn't gone far by the time the black car pulled up alongside him.  
The window rolled down and revealed Mycroft Holmes, wearing an even more sour expression than usual.  
"Shall we be going?" He inquired.  
John's heart fell into his stomach as he remembered the other appointment he had for today, the one that really mattered. His mouth suddenly became dry and his hand shook as he opened the door and slid into the car.  
The car drove on, and the two men sat in silence.  
"Well then." Mycroft said when the silence became too much. "Nervous?"  
"It doesn't matter." John sighed. "I need to see an end to this."  
Mycroft looked up at the ceiling of the car and sighed.  
"Dr. Watson, thank you's are not something I excel at. However I feel that I do owe you one after your actions." He murmured.  
"It had to be done." John shrugged.  
"Exactly. I have never been one to ignore what must be done, but when it comes to my brother..." Mycroft let the sentence hang, for once he was lost for words.  
"I understand." John replied.  
The silence continued again.  
"It appears we are here." Mycroft said after a few minutes had passed. John just nodded and looked at his feet as though he expected them to start running off at any second.


	25. Committed Part 2

John had been in war.  
He'd seen men die in his arms and saved countless more. He'd been shot. He'd killed men. He'd never been more terrified than he was right now.  
The whole place smelled chemical, that at least was calming enough to the doctor in him. Still, his hands were twitching with nervous energy. Even the great Mycroft Holmes paced the room, and this was a man that hardly ever left his chair when he could help it.  
They were currently seated in a small room outfitted with one table surrounded by chairs. They hadn't been there long but it seemed like hours to John.  
Finally the door to the room opened and John leapt up from his seat in anticipation, wanting so badly to see that familiar mop of black curls.  
"You must be the family of Sherlock Holmes?"  
John's heart fell. It wasn't Sherlock, just his doctor.  
"Yes, I am Mycroft Holmes and this is Dr. John Watson." Mycroft replied for the sake of the army doctor who was too busy looking like a kicked puppy to answer.  
"I'm Dr. Kenning. Now, I'm sure you already both know how this is going to work. We're going to bring the patient in here, it's a good idea to let them know your reasoning for getting them to seek help." Kenning wasted no time explaining the situation. "It helps with the healing procedure. Often times patients don't understand how much they affect the people they love with their choices. Maybe talk about how his using hurt you. Don't be angry though, be very supportive."  
"Yeah...got it." John nodded distractedly.  
"Alright. Good. Well Sherlock should be along any moment now. In the meantime are there any concerns you'd like to share?" Kenning asked.  
"...Do you think he'll ever use again?" John asked. He knew perfectly well what the answer would be but he just needed to get his question out there.  
"No one can say for sure." Kenning replied. "We have to hope that this is what he needs to heal."  
John nodded again and then sat back down.  
After another long period of waiting the door opened again and this time John's heart leapt to see a disheveled and pale Sherlock walk through the door.  
He noticed that the younger Holmes avoided looking at anyone in the room, and moved quietly like a ghost to the chair at the far side of the table. There he sat with his eyes pointed down at his feet, his mouth set in a thin line.  
John's mouth was too dry to speak, he kept trying to find the words but didn't know what to say. For days he had been thinking of something...anything to say to Sherlock when he saw him next but now he just couldn't.  
"We've brought Mycroft and John in to speak with you, Sherlock." Dr. Kenning said softly. At this Sherlock finally looked up, his eyes filled with an emotion that John could not read.  
"Yes." He stated simply. "So you have."  
"Is there anything you'd like to say to them before we get started?"  
"No."  
John shifted in his seat and Mycroft scowled, neither one very buoyed by Sherlock's attitude.  
Dr. Kenning directed his attention to John, clearly signaling him to start.  
"Dr. Watson? Would you like to start?" He prompted.  
John shivered, this time it was his turn to look at the ground.  
"Sherlock..." He sighed. "You are the smartest person I have ever known." He chewed at his lower lip. "No...you were the smartest person I have ever known. Then you nearly killed yourself."  
Both Mycroft and Dr. Kenning shot John astonished looks and made various signals for "stop this now" but John ignored them.  
"You always have to be by yourself. You can never stop and think about how everyone else feels. You want to know how I feel?"  
Sherlock was staring at John, his features cold and unreadable. John couldn't tell if he was angry or not but it didn't matter. Even if Sherlock never spoke to him again at least he would be alive.  
"I feel like you're an idiot." John stood, his stomach in knots. This isn't how he wanted this meeting to go. "I'm sorry, I have to leave." He muttered, and then fled from the room.

"Are you getting along with the other patients?"  
"I don't think this is relevant."  
"It's very relevant, seeing you interact with the patients and staff will let us know if you're ready to interact with the rest of the world."  
"I've never been ready to interact with the world. John tells me that I should never become a doctor because my bedside manner is garbage."  
Dr. Kenning nodded, there it was again. Another reference to John.  
This was to be Sherlock's last session, having been issued a clean bill of health he was to be realeased the next day. Although Dr. Kenning had pushed for follow up sessions the higher ups had insisted that Sherlock was mentally fit enough to skip the next step. Personally Kenning believed that the real reason Sherlock got out so early was because no one wanted to deal with him anymore.  
"I hear that Dr. Watson recently got divorced." Kenning mentioned casually.  
"Yes. Good for him." Sherlock smirked.  
"That's not very supportive." Kenning sighed, fingering his own wedding ring.  
"Oh don't pout. It's not that I don't approve of marriage, I just don't approve of John's. It made him so inaccessible. I need him for my work." Sherlock scowled. "Well I say I don't approve of marriage. I should say rather that while I feel marriage can be a useful tool legally I feel that love is something that I will never pursue and find utterly useless."  
"Why is that?" Kenning asked, leaning forward.  
"Oh please. Should I be prepared for questions about my childhood?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you must know, yes my parents divorced. My father and mother alike both had a habit of taking lovers."  
"I see." Kenning nodded.  
"Oh what a sad childhood I had." Sherlock dramatically sighed. "Of course if we're going to talk about failing marriage I rather talk about yours. How is that dear wife of yours?"  
"That's an inappropriate question." Kenning glared. "Back on topic. We've never really finished talking about why you started using cocaine again. I know you first started because of your family troubles, but to return to the drug after such a successful self-made recovery...why would you do that?"  
Sherlock glared at the therapist, growing quite tired of being studied like a lab specimen.  
"I was bored." He said.  
"You use that excuse a lot." Kenning noted. "Is it easier to believe in boredom than to admit in being upset by something?"  
"I said I was bored." Sherlock insisted.  
"Could it be something involving your work? Any friends? Family?"  
"Stop this." Sherlock huffed. "I have given you my answer."  
"Did it have anything to do with John?"  
"Of course it did you pathetic idiot!" Sherlock shouted, his face turning red and his hands grabbing at the arms of the chair so hard that his knuckles turned white. "My god, these are the kinds of doctors we employ? It's a miracle that half of our glorious country is still sane!"  
Kenning blinked with surprise. In all the time he'd spent with Sherlock he'd never seen him display real anger. Annoyance, yes. Sarcasm, obviously. Anger? Never.  
"I came back from the dead after three years of hunting down the men that put a target on his head and when I come back what do I find? He's married. So I return to the way I did things before I met him. Things were boring, dull, lonely. Stupid! Of course it's because of John!" Sherlock hissed.  
"...Why don't you tell him that?" Kenning asked. "Have you ever talked to him?"  
"In case you haven't noticed, the last time I met John he walked out of the room on me. The time prior he found me half dead in my apartment from an overdose and turned me in here. I was content to rot. He had to drag me back to life for a second time." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. "Now, Dr. Kenning. I think we're done here."

Mycroft had sent him the car, but he didn't come. Sherlock was glad of this, both Holmes brothers knew that if they were together for the drive they would only end up arguing. In a way not showing up was Mycroft's way of taking extra care of Sherlock.  
The car took him back to 221B, where he stood for a moment outside just watching the people walk by before walking back up the familiar stairs to his flat.  
Mrs. Hudson, of course, had to stop him on the way to hug him and fret over him insisting that if he needed anything she was right downstairs and that she was so happy he was back. Once he had made it past her and up into his rooms he flung off his coat and sat himself on the couch, unsure of what to do with himself.  
For a moment he entertained the idea of checking his website for cases, but then decided that he wasn't in the mood to sort through all the drivel that came before a real gem of a case. Instead he looked for his violin, finding it leaned up against the bookcase where he had last left it. He let it fly up to it's perch on his shoulder and then began playing a slow dark tune.  
He was so lost in playing that he didn't notice someone walking into the flat. Their presence was only made known after they cleared their throat. Sherlock looked up and saw John standing in front of him.  
"...You've been staying with Harry I see?" Sherlock said after some hesitation. "So you're looking for a more permanent residence." He let the sentence end there, not adding that his door was always open to the army doctor.  
"Yeah...you know I really missed you doing that. You knowing everything." John chuckled.  
They stood there, and John began wishing that there would stop being such an abundance of awkward silences in his life. To end this one he spoke up.  
"Listen...Sherlock...I'm sorry. About running out on...well you know..."  
"John, I have never been well versed in emotions." Sherlock replied casually. "So whatever you did will in the grip of yours I will forgive."  
"Yeah, sure. I'm the only one with emotions." John rolled his eyes.  
"John. I am sorry." Sherlock placed his violin down on the nearby armchair, stepping closer to John.  
"What are you sorry for?" John asked.  
"You shouldn't have had to deal with my problems." Sherlock said.  
"I'm here to make sure you don't have any problems." John joked, elbowing Sherlock.  
"So you will stay then? To ensure my problems have ended?" Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow.  
"Yeah. If you'll have me." John gave a sigh and blushed slightly. "I've got nowhere else."  
Sherlock put a slender hand on John's shoulder, his eyes running up and down the doctor's form.  
"You have me." He said, hating his own words as he said it. Had talking with that idiot Kenning turned him into a romantic idiot that spoke his feelings aloud? Still, he did not regret leaning down and kissing John on the forehead. After all, with Mary gone and John looking for a home with him, it was time he made the doctor his. Who else would look after him but John Watson?


	26. When You Realize

**Guest asked: I'd love to see your take on the initialising of a relationship. Basically, as a prompt, please could you write the two of them realising and confessing their feelings?**

**I tried a million different ideas for this one, one of them actually ended up as a revamp of The Sign of Four which was just too long for the oneshots, hopefully if I ever finish it (not to mention finish One More Miracle) you can see it as a separate story.**

**I hope this story is what you were looking for, enjoy!**

* * *

John didn't really know when it had begun, but one day he realized that Sherlock had been a little more clingy than usually the past few days. More than usual meaning of course the he was actually showing human emotion. Normally Sherlock abhorred even acknowledging people with anything more than a glare and a put-down, yet he kept making excuses to touch John.

He'd put a hand on his elbow to lead him around a corner, or brush his hand over John's while reaching for his phone. Of course the most drastic one yet was just that morning.

"John! Hurry up! I won't wait forever!" Sherlock paced restlessly, his dramatic black coat sweeping about him. Meanwhile upstairs, John was struggling to get dressed in time to avoid Sherlock's impatient wrath.

"Calm down!" He yelled through a jumper as he pulled it over his head. "The crime scene isn't going anywhere!"

"Neither are we!" Sherlock shouted back, his face displaying clear irritation. John stumbled down the stairs, trying to pull on his last shoe. Honestly he was just glad Sherlock was waiting for once, normally the detective would just sweep into the room and announce he was leaving before running off. Apparently they were making progress in the whole "social interaction" area.

"Three identical murders committed only minutes apart!" Sherlock rushed up to John and practically pulled him to the door. "I won't wait any longer! I have to see for myself!"

John had only just registered the fact that Sherlock was holding his hand, and by the time he realized it he was too stunned to pull away. The detective's hand felt warm in his, and Sherlock was making no moves to remove his hand...maybe it was okay to just let it happen for awhile?

That wasn't the end of it either.

"Wrapped up already?" John smiled as he watched the bedraggled detective drag himself through the door. He could always tell when Sherlock had a case and when he didn't. The man had an erratic kind of energy, becoming hyperactive when on the chase and then slothful when there was nothing to do.

"I'm bitterly disappointed, John." Sherlock sighed. "That case didn't last nearly as long as I thought it would."

"Most people are happy when a murder gets put away." John replied with a smirk. Sherlock collapsed on the couch next to John and stretched his long legs over the doctor's lap.

"Oi, make yourself comfortable." John playfully batted at the detective's feet which caused a thin smirk to form on Sherlock's lips.

John adjusted his laptop so that his lap could also accommodate Sherlock's legs. For awhile he just worked on updating his blog. Then he noticed that Sherlock was watching him.

When he glanced over Sherlock immediately averted his eyes, pretending to be looking at one thing or another. A light blush colored his face.

"Are you getting sick?" John asked with concern, it wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had worn himself thin on a case.

"Of course not." Sherlock huffed, jumping up from the couch and storming out of the room.

The week after brought another murder and Sherlock was a little overly thrilled. John was too used to the detective's love of all things behind caution tape to bother scolding him about it, so he just watched from the sidelines while Sherlock darted around the body like an excited grasshopper.

"Wow, are you with the police?"

John turned around to see an amber haired woman looking at him with catlike eyes. She was sizing him up, smiling broadly.

"Uh..yes actually." John grinned, finding a definite advantage to this extra work on the side.

"A real hero." The girl inched closer. "I'm impressed."

"Oh it's nothing really, I just help out with some of the tougher cases." He was about to ask for her number when suddenly a tall lithe figure appeared at his side.

"John." Sherlock snaked an arm around John's waist. "I need your opinion on this." He practically whispered the words into John's ear, and for a blissful moment John's attraction shifted from the woman...

_to Sherlock?_

"Oh. I'm sorry." The woman blushed and smiled. "I should...get out of your way." She fled from the scene, sparing only one more glance back at the embarrassed and confused doctor.

"S-Sherlock?" John spluttered. "What do you think you're doing? Couldn't you see I was...busy?" John wanted to pull away but Sherlock's hand was resting on his lower back, causing an almost magnetic pull.

The detective didn't answer John, he just watched the woman walk off. Once she was a safe distance away he pulled away from John and went back to the corpse.

John stared at his flatmate, trying to figure out in his head just what was going on. Sherlock had been getting more intimate clearly. He was apparently also jealous. That wasn't new though, Sherlock always complained when one of John's girlfriend pulled him away from work. Could that be it? Maybe Sherlock was just jealous, and was trying to keep John around.

Maybe he should test the theory.

"Well, I think I'll call that girl from earlier." He commented casually.

"What girl?" Sherlock asked, distracted by his own thoughts. He was laying on the couch with his hands pressed together and positioned against his chin.

"You know the one from this morning, she gave me her number. I'm gonna ask her out tonight." John fibbed, hoping this could shed some light on what was going on.

Sherlock looked up slowly, his eyes almost screamed 'danger'.

"Don't waste your time with her." He replied smoothly.

"Why not?" John awaited some deduction that showed the girl was a cheater or married or secretly a man or something. What came instead was decidedly un-Sherlock.

"...I rather you not." He murmured.

"I can't live my life to please you, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes.

"John. Don't go tonight." Sherlock insisted, his voice gaining a desperate tone.

"Alright. Give me a good reason why I shouldn't."

Sherlock sat up, eyeing John carefully. His lip almost trembled like a child's, and his face colored slightly.

"John." He said. "We belong to each other."

"...What?" John nearly laughed. "Sherlock that's ridiculous and a little insulting."

"No, John you don't understand." Sherlock scowled. "No one else is special enough for us. You're the only one that can take care of me without having me throw a fit."

"That's debatable."

"I'm the only one you let see you when you've woken up from a nightmare of Afghanistan."

"We live together, it's only natural you'd see me when I wake up."

"John. Listen." Sherlock sighed. Something in his voice made John lose the urge to banter nervously, so he just sat back.

"Alright. I'm listening." He nodded.

"John..." Sherlock stood up and walked over until he was standing right in front of John. "You are the most important thing to me." Then he leaned forward and kissed him.

For a moment John stood breathless, too shocked to think. This went a little beyond jealousy...was Sherlock telling John he loved him?

John stood silently while Sherlock's eyes ran up and down the soldier's form. His face took on a disappointed frown.

"Oh...I have misjudged the situation...I am sorry, John." Sherlock actually blushed, his face looking childlike and hurt, he made a move to retreat into his bedroom but John caught him by the arm and spun him back around again.

"Sherlock...you just surprised me is all." He laughed softly and nervously. "Well I can't say I've never thought of you that way but..." John gave a small smile and kissed Sherlock.

Sherlock drew back after a few seconds with a confused look on his face.

"John...I must admit I have no experience with this...are we having a moment or not?"

* * *

**I am so sorry it took so long to update, school is kicking my ass so I have little time to update and even less time to make it a good update. **

**In other news, wow guys 68 reviews? Thank you so much. Now let's see if we can get it up to a hundred huh?**


	27. Observant

**Dedicated to my observant Veronica. Well deduced. ;)**

* * *

"So your date didn't go well then?"

John glared back at his flatmate, the curly haired man that was currently invested in a complicated looking experiment.

"Just because you know these things doesn't mean you get the right to point them out." John growled back.

He sat there quietly for a second until his curiosity itched too much for him to ignore the question.

"Alright how did you know?" He sighed. Sherlock smirked and then proceeded to explain without even looking up from his lab equipment.

"When you've come back from a particularly awful date you always stop by to inform Mrs. Hudson of the failure, also this time I noticed that you took a rather small amount of cash meaning this was not someone you cared enough about to take somewhere nice. You didn't want to go out with her at all so you were probably put up to dating one of your sister's lonely friends. Also you're still favoring your leg where she kicked you. I assume she was simply as insane as Harry Watson and that you did not provoke the attack what with you being such a gentleman."

John rubbed at his temples and sighed. There was nothing he could hide from this man. His every emotion and movement was common knowledge to Sherlock Holmes.

"Simple enough for anyone who has the capacity for observation." Sherlock grinned with cocky attitude.

John glowered at the taller man.

_Two can play at this game..._

"Well I can observe too." He shrugged.

"Oh?" Sherlock looked up, suddenly John was the more interesting experiment in the world. The consulting detective removed his goggles and walked over to sit next to John, wrapping his blue bathrobe around himself.

"Yeah." John smiled.

"Alright then. Impress me." Sherlock challenged.

John thought for a moment and then looked at Sherlock.

"Well...when you've found something really interesting your eyes light up and you get all twitchy with energy. Sometimes you pace, mostly you just become completely intolerable to everyone around you. Of course when you're not on a case it's the complete opposite and no one can convince you to do anything but lay around. You're still intolerable though."

"That's not exactly observant, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I'm not done yet!" John insisted. "Your hands shake when you want a smoke, and when you're tired but don't want to admit it you lay on the couch and insist that you're thinking. Sometimes when Mrs. Hudson's made biscuits you find an excuse to walk in and take some, even though you never eat ever because you think you have more important things to do."

"Go on." Sherlock's mouth twitched with amusement.

"Sometimes when people call you a freak you pretend to brush it off with something sarcastic but your eyes get dark like you're sad."

_Uh oh...am I going too far? _John thought seeing Sherlock wince slightly.

"A-also..." He continued only slightly unsure of himself. "When you're angry you start treating everything like the person that offended you. You shove things around and slam things down. When you play violin it reflects your mood, I can always tell how you feel just from what you play...and your eyes...your eyes are so expressive and intelligent..."

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, and John couldn't be sure but he suspected he saw a light blush fall on Sherlock's pale cheeks.

"John...how do I feel now?"Sherlock asked, his stare intense. John thought for a moment, then he reached forward and gently grasped Sherlock's pajama shirt in his hand in order to pull the detective closer. Then he brushed his lips slowly against Sherlock's.

"You feel like going out with me later today. I think I could use a better date after the girl Harry sent to kill me." John smiled and ruffled Sherlock's hair before making his exit, leaving a bemused and happy Sherlock behind.


	28. Taming Holmes Part 1

Sherlock paced furiously about the room, for a moment John imagined that the restless detective might leave deep trenches in the ground where he had walked over and over again.

"It's been weeks and still he has nothing for me, I solve countless cases for him and he can't turn up a dead body or two?" Sherlock huffed, obviously referring to Greg Lestrade who had, earlier that morning, informed Sherlock that nothing had happened since he last asked five minutes ago.

"Calm down, I'm sure you'll have something eventually." John sighed, he was currently engaged in fending off rather explicit comments on his blog, all of them from the many employees at Scotland Yard that Sherlock had pissed off that morning.

"Eventually? Do you hear yourself, John? I cannot wait until eventually!" Sherlock hissed, increasing his pacing speed and throwing a kick at a nearby chair for good measure.

John sighed again, shutting his laptop and gesturing towards Sherlock.

"Alright. Here. Now."

Sherlock shot John a questioning glance, tilting his head to the side like a cat studying a laser pointer. John gestured again, inviting Sherlock to sit down. The detective followed orders with little more than an eye roll in protestation.

When Sherlock sat down John pulled the man in closer and took his hand in his, rubbing small circles across the back of Sherlock's hand with his thumb.

"You need to calm down." He murmured, pressing a kiss to the man's hand.

"That is quite impossible right now." Sherlock huffed, leaning back against John's side and angling his head to the ceiling.

John gently pulled the man down out of his sitting position so that he was laying with his head on John's lap. Then he began stroking Sherlock's forehead, pushing back his wild curls.

"Joh-"

"Shh." John silenced. They sat there for awhile, John playing with Sherlock's hair and running his hands over the detective's forehead, until John noticed that Sherlock had closed his eyes and was leaning into the doctor's hands. John smiled, reaching his hands around so that his thumbs could rub small circles into Sherlock's shoulders. The muscles there were tense of course. As he worked against the stiffness Sherlock sighed and wrapped an arm around John's hip.

"So, think you can wait a bit on the case?" John ventured to ask, hoping that mentioning the lack of a case didn't remind him of how bored he was.

"Hmm." Sherlock replied simply, turning on his side with his eyes still shut.

John took this resignation as an invitation to return to what he had been doing, so he opened his laptop and attempted to type as the computer sat next to him on the couch seeing as his lap was occupied by Sherlock. A few blog paragraphs later John looked down to check on the detective and was surprised to see him sleeping.

_Sherlock Holmes? Sleeping while waiting on a case?_ His mouth jerked up into a smile, perhaps miracles were possible.

* * *

**Originally I intended to write this as Sherlock being rude out in public and John getting him to calm down but it sort of ended up as this. If anyone's interested in the original story though I can probably whip it up!**


	29. Taming Holmes Part 2

"If you really wanted my help you would have called me sooner instead of letting your incompetent officers trample over the evidence like a herd of frightened elephants!"

John sighed and looked at his feet, pretending that he had not come here with Sherlock was seeming like the most logical option.

Lestrade seemed to be taking the frustrated giving up route himself, while Anderson and Donovan rolled their eyes.

"Well technically this is police business, they do have a bit more right than you." Lestrade defended, although he clearly wasn't trying very hard to argue with Sherlock.

"So you don't want to catch the killer then?" Sherlock hissed. "Of course considering Scotland Yard's reputation I really shouldn't be surprised."

"Now hold on." Donovan stepped in. "You shouldn't be here at all!"

"Don't feel the need to make yourself known, I don't need you for anything now thank you." Sherlock replied with a fierce glare.

"Donovan, stand down." Lestrade warned, knowing that if the stubborn female cop opened her mouth it would only provoke the even more stubborn consulting detective even more.

"I don't think we should have to deal with this, this is our crime scene you should just send him home." Donovan ignored Lestrade's warning and folded her arms over her chest, an entitled glare forming on her face.

"You need me." Sherlock replied with haughty attitude.

"Like a hole in the head..." Anderson muttered.

"Alright everyone shut up." Lestrade growled, pressing a hand against the spot on his forehead where a headache was blossoming. "Sherlock I am truly sorry the crime scene does not live up to your standards, why don't you just go question the wife, she showed up as soon as news of her husband's death leaked."

Sherlock muttered something about incompetence before turning to located the wife.

"Are you sure that's such a good idea with him all riled up?" John asked.

"He can only do so much more damage." Lestrade replied, his voice defeated.

A minute later Sherlock was walking away from the wife, who was in tears.

"Did your face scare her?" Donovan smirked.

"Again with the immature attempts at eliciting an emotional response." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock! Here! Now!" Everyone's heads snapped around at John's sudden order. The small army doctor had taken on an authoritative stance, arms crossed and face stern. Sherlock slowly slunk over to where John stood, looking like a scolded child.

John placed a hand on the detective's cheek, and let the other one play with his hair. He stroked it back away from Sherlock's forehead and then placed a kiss there.

Instantly Sherlock's eyes shut and he shivered slightly. His mouth,l which had been open to offer some withering retort, shut.

"You're not going to be any trouble now are you?" John asked, and Sherlock meekly shook his head.

That was when John noticed the various police officers standing around with their mouths hanging open. He smirked and patted Sherlock on the head, causing the detective to scowl.

"How... did you do that?" Lestrade asked, gaping.

"John, we're going now." Sherlock huffed while blushing a deep shade of red.

"Of course." John smirked, taking Sherlock's hand. As they went to leave Sherlock turned around to speak to Lestrade.

"Oh, by the way. It was the wife."


	30. They're A Real Pair

"I hope you don't mind me barging in like this..."

News reporter Sally Gale slung her bag over the side of the chair that sat across from Detective Inspector Lestrade's desk, before sitting down in it herself. Lestrade waved his hand dismissively and took a sip from a paper cup of coffee sitting on his desk.

"Not at all, I could use a break. Today's been busy. Now, what do you need me for?" He smiled, his stress clear from the look in his eyes.

"Well," Sally pulled a pad of paper and a pencil out of her bag, and chewed on the eraser without thinking. It was a nervous habit of hers, and she had every reason to be nervous today because if she didn't get this story it was her job for sure. "I was hoping you could tell me about infamous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, I see." Lestrade chuckled. "Should have known."

"I don't mean any offense, I mean I'm sure things are interesting enough here in the Yard but..." Sally rushed to make amends, but the D.I. just shook his head.

"No, it's fine. Sherlock is pretty big news what with his coming back from the dead." He sighed, taking another well needed sip of coffee.

"Yes, I was hoping you could tell me a bit about that."

"Well, I don't know too much. Sherlock isn't really the kind of bloke to talk to you about anything personal. No, you'd be better off asking John Watson." Lestrade replied.

"John, the blogger?" Sally tilted her head, her hand scurrying to write everything down as soon as it was said.

"Yeah, sometimes I think John's the only one Sherlock trusts." Lestrade nodded.

"Really?" Sally leaned closer. "So did John know that Sherlock wasn't really dead? Was it all an act?"

Lestrade lowered his eyes to the ground, and when he looked up again his eyes were sad and a little uncomfortable.

"No. He didn't." He said. "And that was Sherlock's biggest mistake. He could have easily lost John that way."

"So 'the fall' was hard on him?" Sally asked, using the term that had recently been attached to Sherlock's disappearing act.

"It was the hardest on him, no one else knew Sherlock like he did not even his brother, Mycroft." Lestrade sighed. "There were times I really worried about him. Of course he was one of the first to know when Sherlock came back."

"Oh? Did he know before it became public?" Sally shook a cramp out of her hand and began writing again.

"Oh yeah, and to think I worried about him. I should have been suspicious when he started smiling all the time and ignoring my calls. I thought he had a woman hiding away somewhere!"

Sally laughed and Lestrade cracked a smile.

"So is there anything going on between those two?" Sally asked with a coy grin. "That's the question everyone is dying to know."

"Honestly...I have no idea." Lestrade sighed. "One second John's running off with some girl the next he and Sherlock are locked in the flat for days without anyone hearing from them. I know one thing for sure..."

Sally looked up, sensing that this was her headline.

"Those two are a real pair. Whether they're a couple or not doesn't matter, you could never split up Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They're not like normal people, they live in their own world." Lestrade gave a small smile. "But, if you want to know more it seems they're coming in now. Why don't you go talk to them? I have work to get back to now."

Sally turned her head and could see a tall pale man and a shorter stockier man through the small crack where the door was open. Getting a hold of Sherlock had seemed impossible but here was her chance for a direct interview!

"Thank you so much for your time!" She said, hurriedly grabbing her things. Lestrade sparred a passing wave before turning back to his paperwork.

"As if he wasn't enough of a freak already. Now he's the walking dead." Anderson snorted, and Sherlock's head snapped around to accept the insult.

"Seeing you almost makes me wish I was dead again." He replied casually, earning a glare from John. The army doctor folded his arms over his chest, clearly not pleased.

"That...is not a joke, Sherlock." He huffed. The taller man blinked and muttered an apology.

"Still, do shut up, Anderson." John smirked.

"Excuse me!"

Sally ran over to the duo, pad and pencil still clutched in her hand and bag swinging at her side. She grinned nervously, unsure of how to approach such a famous character.

"I was wondering if I could ask you two some questions?" She stuttered.

"No time for that." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John shot him another warning glare.

"Of course you can." He smiled reassuringly at the reporter. "Don't mind him, he's sore because I made him eat breakfast this morning which apparently wastes valuable crime scene time."

"I see?" Sally laughed, not quite sure that she did. "Well I just wanted to know..."

"You want to know if John is my lover." Sherlock sighed.

"W-well that's not exactly..."

"Sherlock!"

The consulting detective ignored both John and Sally's blushing faces, and instead went on with his topic of conversation.

"John and I are having regular intercourse, he engages in many irritating forms of affection such as worrying about my health and taking me out to dinner. I must have John by my side at all times as it becomes hard to concentrate when he's away and I'm worrying about him. I hope that answers all of your questions." Sherlock flashed a cocky smile and then walked off, most likely to pester Lestrade about a case.

John blushed, a hand to his forehead.

"Just..." He sighed. "Just ignore him...please?" He ran off in pursuit of his now confirmed lover, leaving the stunned reporter behind.

_The Detective Inspector was right..._ Sally thought to herself, still slightly shocked and amused. _Those two are a real pair..._

* * *

**I can't remember if I've done the "news reporter" story yet or not. If I have, well here's another. **

**Remember reviews are wonderful and requests are allowed, with any luck I should be able to publish the million and one ideas I have bouncing around in my head so long as the upcoming Comiccon does not distract me!**


	31. Pet, Love, Darling, Sherl

At first John didn't think about it.

"I'm making tea. Want any, Sherl?" John asked as he walked by clad in pajama bottoms and not much else. He ruffled the sleepy detective's hair affectionately as he passed by on his way into the kitchen.

"...What?"

"Tea. You want some?" John asked again. It was just like Sherlock to be so caught up in his thoughts that he couldn't hear a word anyone said.

"No I meant...what did you just call me?"

"Sherl. It's a nickname. Why, not a fan?" John shrugged, filling the kettle with water.

"..." Sherlock pulled his knees up against his chest, pondering the nickname. John smiled, it was during times like this that his boyfriend looked the most like a little kid. Whenever he was confronted with the problems of social interaction.

"I could always call you Sherly." John smiled, clambering onto the couch and pulling Sherlock down onto his lap. Sherlock squirmed his way into John's arms and lay his head against the doctor's chest.

"That's what my parents and brother used to call me. I rather not."

"Hm...what about...Lock?"

"What are you supposed to be, Key?"

John chuckled and pinched the detective's cheeks lightly, pressing a kiss into his curly dark hair.

"Well I like Sherl." He nodded. Sherlock made no protest against the name which John took as an okay to use it.

He didn't think about nicknames again until later that day.

"So anyway, three bodies all with the hearts cut out, their times of death only two or four minutes apart but miles away from each other." Lestrade sighed. "Serial killer for sure, but how is he moving so fast? Could be a cult."

"As always, Lestrade, you fail to see the obvious." Sherlock smirked, examining the bloody body with his usual macabre curiosity.

"Obvious to him. Of course." Lestrade commented just quiet enough that only John could hear.

"I'll need photographs of the other victims. Yesterday would be a good time." Sherlock commented, standing suddenly and walking back to John's side. As he did the doctor noticed a slight stumble in his step. Sure enough when Sherlock passed John he leaned ever so slightly against the shorter man for support.

"Sherl, have you been skipping meals again?" John sighed with concern. "What about sleeping? I know you haven't been to bed in awhile, I keep finding you on the couch."

Sherlock's head snapped up at the mention of his new pet name, and his pale face flushed with red.

"That is unimportant." He growled, attempting to flee the scene. John grabbed the man's wrist, holding him within scolding distance.

"Being on a case is no reason to not take care of yourself, Sherl, and being embarrassed doesn't mean you can walk away from me." John was stern faced on the outside but on the inside he was laughing at his discovery. It seemed that if he wanted Sherlock to behave all he had to do was call him by his new nickname. It was a new weak spot in an otherwise invulnerable man.

Sherlock spared a glance at Lestrade, who had a hand over his mouth to avoid laughing. Then Sherlock turned his glare on John.

"Oh no, none of that. Lestrade can send those pictures to us, we're going home and you're eating and taking a nap. Hear me...Sherl?" The corners of John's mouth jerked up into a smile.

Sherlock pouted, and his eyes were furious.

"...Agreed..." He huffed, retreating to go call a cab.

John turned at the sound of Lestrade exploding into laughter, and he couldn't help but laugh too.

"Wow, you two." Lestrade chuckled. "You two are really cute, huh?"


	32. Let Me Count The Ways

Sherlock had noticed a few things about John after his great return from death. It was hard not to notice, even if he wasn't the super perceptive man he was he would still notice.

He was compiling a list of them at the moment, marking them by their importance. He sat back in his chair, legs outstretched so his feet rested on the table.

_1. Dark circles around eyes._

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you...I couldn't put you in danger." Sherlock's voice came out choked. John wasn't looking at him why wasn't he looking at him? The detective lowered his head like a beaten dog.

They were standing in the rain, outside the door to John's new flat.

"You were...alive...all this time?" John whispered.

Sherlock looked up again. John had dark circles set around his eyes, and his eyes themselves looked worried and restless.

He hadn't been sleeping, clearly.

_2. Weight loss._

"I really am so..."

John grabbed Sherlock by the collar, pulled back his fist like he was going to punch him. Then he lowered his fist and growled, paced away a few inches and paced back.

"You know you could let me in on your schemes just once! Just for the important things like this! I'm not afraid of danger, Sherlock you should have told me!" He yelled. The rain was soaking him through, and even Sherlock was beginning to look a bit disheveled with his impressive coat clinging to him from damp.

"That's hardly my style." Sherlock half smirked, wondering if it was too soon to lighten the mood. John didn't seem to think so, he chuckled actually and for a moment it was like old times-giggling at crime scenes and going to Buckingham Palace naked.

Then John rushed at Sherlock and for a second Sherlock thought he was finally getting punched, but instead John wrapped his arms around the man tightly as if he was afraid Sherlock would melt away and drip through his fingers. He practically found his way into Sherlock's coat, and rested against his chest.

John felt different, he was too thin. So he'd lost weight, too much weight.

_3. Drinking._

"Let's go inside already, it's pouring." John withdrew from the hug. "Being back from the dead won't protect you from catching cold."

Sherlock tried not to show his distaste at the fact that John was living somewhere else. He'd long ago named 221B as _their_ home. He couldn't live there alone. He'd have to get John to move back in soon.

John's home looked almost empty, it lacked the sort of comforts you'd expect to see in a person's home: pictures, meaningless decorations, pillows on the couch, rugs on the floor.

What Sherlock did notice was the bottles.

John had left them on the table and the counter, beer bottles with the labels peeled off and rolled into a tube to be tossed away onto the table.

_Drinking habits. Borderline alcoholic. Dangerous? Possibly. Easily cured? Yes. _

Sherlock frowned. Those were all the important points, the rest of the night was pointless conversations...

Still, he did love being around to have pointless conversations with John. If he could do it all over again he would talk to John more, ignore more cases and stay home with him.

Of course that was impossible, and right now he had to isolate the facts and ignore all extra thoughts in order to decide what his approach to John must be from now on.

"Are you still sitting there? Have you done nothing all day?"

Sherlock was slightly shocked by John's appearance in the door, he hadn't even noticed he'd gone out. John walked in, laden with grocery bags which he dumped in the kitchen.

Sherlock didn't reply. He was too busy making another list.

_1. John doing the shopping_

_2. John making tea_

_3. John insisting he sleep or eat or not smoke_

_4. John's jumpers laying all over the flat_

_5. John writing about him, and worrying about his public image_

"I'm going to move the eyes into the back of the fridge, I need room, okay?" John called from the kitchen.

_6. John when he's angry about something I've done_

_7. John when he thinks that something I have done is "amazing"_

"Your brother called today but I think we're still ignoring him."

_8. John taking my side_

"You've been rather quiet today, is something wrong?" John walked up to Sherlock, his face questioning.

_9. John worrying about me_

"Sherlock?"

The detective glanced up.

John's eyes were clear and awake. He looked happy if not slightly worried. He was sober. He wasn't wasting away. He had slept well last night.

Sherlock reached out and pulled John down slowly by the collar of his jumper. Then he kissed John, sucking on his bottom lip and nipping slightly. John's shock lasted only a few seconds, and soon he was leaning into the kiss and making small pleased noises.

_10. John when I kiss him_


	33. Sick and Troublesome

"Lestrade is calling me in." Sherlock pulled his scarf around his neck, trying to keep from coughing out the words he spoke. He ran towards the door like he had a time limit to get there, which in a way he did. A time limit named Doctor John Watson.

"No, Lestrade is not calling you in." John appeared in front of the door, spreading his arms wide to block the detective. "Because you are not working today. You're sick."

"That's no reason for me to stay home!" Sherlock scowled.

"It's a perfectly good reason. Now don't make me tell you again. Get in pajamas and find something restful to do. At least for today no work, no cases, no experiments, no shooting the walls. You're going to lay down and I'm going to make you some tea."

"John!" Sherlock began to protest, but his words gave way to a fit of coughing. John steadied the taller man and led him away from the door.

"Like I said. Rest. Now."

Five minutes later a pouting and coughing Sherlock sat in his pajamas on the couch, plotting his revenge.

"I'm bored!" He sniffled, but John ignored him.

Sherlock looked around the room for a weapon of mayhem. Sadly John was keeping his gun upstairs and any move to retrieve it would be foiled, and his chemistry set was in the kitchen where John was making tea so there was no getting that.

That was when his eyes rested on a box rubber bands sitting on the table.

John ignored the first few rubber bands that went flying by his head, but when the fourth one pegged him in the back he sighed and turned around to deal with his troublesome patient.

"Sherlock. Resting does not mean using me for target practice."

Sherlock had his arm propped up on the back of the couch, and was currently taking aim with another rubber band which he let fly just short of John's position.

"Bored." He pouted.

"You're not supposed to be entertained you're supposed to be getting well." John sighed. "I'm going to make you some food, because I know you haven't eaten in three days."

"Tea's fine." Sherlock replied.

"No it's not." John growled, returning to the kitchen.

When John came back Sherlock was laying down, covered in a blanket. John smiled, at last he was getting some rest. He'd have to save the soup he made for later, but that was fine.

He placed a hand on Sherlock's forehead and his brow furrowed with worry. He was burning up.

This is what John always expected to happen to the younger man. He was always pushing himself so hard and taking such awful care of himself, sooner or later he would just collapse of sickness.

John lifted the man off the couch and sighed when he realized how thin Sherlock was. It wasn't even hard lifting him. Sherlock murmured something in his sleep and made a pained expression.

"Hush you, you've had enough pouting for one day." John joked, carrying the man to their bed.

He lay Sherlock down and pulled the comforter over him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Sherlock's eyes blinked open and when he realized where he was he scowled slightly.

"I do not need to be coddled, John." He glared.

"Just let me take care of you, sod." John laughed and kissed him.


	34. 100 Reviews Special

**100 reviews! We did it! Thank you guys so much for all your support, if you weren't reviewing I wouldn't be writing! **

**In honor of 100 I decided to do a special chapter, I debated what it would be for awhile before deciding to go big or go home. So...enjoy! **

**(Also just so we're clear I hate the formatting on this site. All my paragraphs get lumped together or chopped apart. I apologize for all this nonsense, I hope you can follow along regardless.)**

* * *

When John came home to a clean flat, he knew something was wrong.

In fact he was so shocked by the wrongness of it all that he dropped the groceries at the door and ran through the flat looking for the source of the notoriously cluttered flat.

"Sherlock!" He shouted, and the curly haired detective appeared behind him with his hands up in a calming gestured.

"Did someone break in and clean the flat?" John asked only half joking. Sherlock shrugged, giving John a look that the army doctor had never seen on his face before.

Now that was odd.

Sherlock without a witty response? Clean flat? Something was definitely wrong.

John did a quick sweep of all dangerous topics. Sherlock's pupils were fine and there were no pinpricks about his wrists, nothing appeared to have been lit on fire, and the fridge was surprisingly free of body parts.

"Sherlock...what's going on?" John turned to the man who had left his side and moved to the couch.

Sherlock picked up his violin and took great care in tuning it before answering.

"You tell me, John." He replied, his voice languid and bored, sounding like the growl of a cat before it springs.

John blinked, completely puzzled. He was unsure of what Sherlock wanted him to do, so he decided to do what Sherlock would do. He investigated.

He searched every place he knew had been specifically cleaned: the desk where millions of case notes once stood, the table where the chemistry set had resided, the bookshelf that had been littered with knives and bullets as well as books on the dissection of different bodies.

"Good, John." Sherlock praised, placing his violin on the table and sitting back on the couch in a relaxed position. "You've started out well enough, but you won't find anything there. Think harder."

John bit back a smile, he had to act like he was annoyed by this playfulness or else he'd never find out what he was looking for.

He remembered when Sherlock had been searching for cameras in the house, he had mentioned dust. Maybe that was it? Look for breaks in the dust lines? No wait...Sherlock cleaned the flat because he wanted John to think about things he asked Sherlock to do that he never did...should he look in the fridge near the milk?

Then it hit him.

Sherlock was sitting there with a smug smile on his face, amused by John's antics. This wasn't a problem to be solved by deduction, just another instance in which John knew exactly what his boyfriend was up to.

John walked up to Sherlock and reached inside his pocket with a tentative hand.

"Well done." Sherlock smiled, taking John's wrist and pulling his hand away before John could find out what exactly it was Sherlock was keeping hidden from him.

"What did I find, exactly?" John laughed, leaning over his boyfriend.

Sherlock smiled and took John's hand again. He slipped something cold into the palm of John's hand and then curled his fingers over it.

John uncurled his fingers and his heart stopped. Sitting in the palm of his hand was a silver ring engraved with dark ornate designs.

"Sherlock?" He choked.

"I am not very good with this sort of thing. What you normal people do. So I had to change the tradition a bit to fit with my talents. I hope you don't mind." Sherlock smirked slightly, his smile holding just a hint of nervousness. He took the ring from John's hand and held it in front of him wearing a questioning glance. "John, marry me."

John twisted the golden wedding ring around his finger while he thought of what to write in his blog. The last case had lasted nearly two weeks and seeing as Sherlock insisted on no sleep and no food during cases due to convenience and time saving, the detective was now going through his post-case recovery period.

John could hear small movements coming from the bedroom which told him that his husband was awake, and not long after Sherlock emerged into the living room with bleary eyes and bedhead. Sherlock stumbled over to John and then lay down with his head in the doctor's lap.

"You wouldn't feel so bad if you didn't treat your body like garbage all the time." John chuckled.

"I don't need to take care of myself. That's what I have you for." Sherlock mumbled in reply.

"I suppose that's true." John rolled his eyes. "Get dressed. I'm going to take you out for breakfast."

"Why are we doing that?" Sherlock asked in disgust, clearly preferring to lay on the couch for the rest of the day. John smiled and kissed him on the forehead.

"It's one of those annoying things normal married people do."


	35. The Unlucky Bachelor

**cajungirllyke said: Omg squee! I love Johnlock proposals so much! :-) Might we see a Johnlock wedding scene? I'd love to hear their vows.**

**This one was a real challenge, writing something so normal for someone so...Sherlock. **

**I tried to stay in character as much as possible while still giving you readers something romantic, enjoy!**

**Also I had a complaint from my girlfriend so I'm gonna try to clear some stuff up. Guys in the last chapter the formatting messed up a split in the paragraphs where a time difference was supposed to be. The last chapter covered the proposal and a small amount of time when they were actually married. So, just in case you were confused, there was supposed to be a gap there.**

* * *

It was no real surprise that they'd chosen to elope.

Mycroft figured it out in no time, but decided not to crash the party figuring that the sibling rivalry was not as important as tying his brother down to someone who would take care of him. He did however make it his business to drop a hint to Lestrade who happily spread the rumor to most of the Yard.

They didn't go too far from London, just found a small town nearby where no one would make a fuss, then they got a room and booked a date with the church. John thought for once in his life things were going to be simple. That's where he was wrong.

The rain was coming down steadily by the time John got back to the hotel, and his leg was feeling stiff and sore. In his mind he knew this was just because he was nervous but the pain still showed in his limp whether psychosomatic or not.

"I got the tea, though it wouldn't hurt for you to get up and come with me next time you lazy sod." John teased, lifting the cardboard tray that held their drinks in one hand so he could pocket the key card to the hotel room with the other. As he turned from the door he sighed with displeasure when he realized that they were not alone in the room.

"Oh! Good, you're back, John!" Sherlock grabbed his tea without even a thank you. John eyed up the man in the suit sitting in the only other chair in the room. He looked familiar but John just couldn't put a name to the face.

"This is Robert Walsingham, I'm sure you recognize him." Sherlock said, using that uncanny ability to read John's mind.

"Oh...oh yeah! The famous billionaire!" John smiled. "Didn't you just get married to that millionaire's daughter? Congratulations."

"Actually that wedding is the reason I'm consulting your friend here." Robert said softly. His black hair was slicked back with gel and he wore a suit. The way he sat was completely professional, although he kept glancing at his phone nervously.

John frowned. So many people called Sherlock his friend, and he didn't know if he should actually correct them or not.

"Go on, tell us then don't keep us waiting." Sherlock was getting that eager look in his eyes that usually meant a case was coming.

"Well as you know I was supposed to get married yesterday. We came here to this small town to try and avoid the media." Robert began. "Everything seemed to be going fine with the exception of Flora showing up..."

"Flora?" Holmes leaned forward with a questioning glance.

"An old...er shall we say acquaintance of mine. She used to be a...dancer." Robert blushed and it wasn't hard to figure out what kind of dancer he meant. "She showed up and tried to make a big fuss but she was escorted out quickly. Anyway, like I was saying, things were going great until my wife Hatty vanished."

"Vanished?" John asked.

"Yes. Not before the ceremony, she didn't leave me at the altar so don't get the wrong idea. She left during the dinner afterwards. No one has seen her since yesterday."

"Tell me about your wife." Sherlock insisted.

"She's an American, we met a long time ago when I was on vacation. She's a bit of a tomboy, but she handles herself well in the public eye." Robert sighed, glancing at his phone again as though he expected his wife to call any minute.

"Was she showing any sign of discomfort the day of the wedding?" Sherlock asked.

"Well...there was something." The billionaire muttered. "During the ceremony...there was someone in the back row, I couldn't get a good look at them, but Hatty had a bit of a shock seeing them and actually dropped her bouquet. The stranger had to hand it back to her."

"I see." Sherlock gave a small smirk.

"All I know about her disappearance is that shortly after she vanished, the police saw her and Flora walking together not too far from here. I went out to look for myself and when I heard that you were in town...well the world's greatest detective shows up and you have a mystery on your hands. You don't ignore that!"

"Well I should have your case solved before long, in fact I already have an idea of what has happened. Return to your search and I'll meet you at the church with an answer later today." Sherlock yawned, suddenly disinterested.

"Y-you'll have an answer by this afternoon?" Robert stuttered.

"Yes, this is how he acts. Welcome to my world. We'll see you then." John sighed, walking the confused billionaire to the door. As the baffled Robert Walsingham left, John turned to his fiance with a clear look of irritation.

"So what's that all about, then?" He crossed his arms over his chest.

"What's what?" If Sherlock's innocence was feigned then he was good at pretending. He leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long thin legs, shooting John a confused look.

"Sherlock. We're getting married. Tomorrow, and here you are with a case." John glared.

"Well I certainly didn't intend to have a case, but seeing as one has dropped into my lap as a nice wedding present..."

"Sherlock you are taking this seriously right?" John sighed.

Sherlock stood and stared into John's eyes. John shook his head, realizing he was being analyzed. Sherlock could never just ask someone how they felt, he had to study them and realize it for himself.

"John..." Sherlock leaned his forehead against the doctor's. "One more day, and then we will belong to each other..."

John sighed but his sigh quickly turned into a smile. "We already belonged to each other, you git."

Sherlock grinned and then leapt up to grab his coat where he had thrown it carelessly across the bed earlier.

"Come, shall we go see how the local police are doing? I hear they've been searching the fountain in the town square for Hatty's body. How amusing don't you think?"

"I have no idea, Sherlock. You're the only one that seems to know anything about this runaway bride!"

Once they were on the streets Sherlock took off, finding his way through the picturesque town with ease. It didn't take long to catch up with the local police, who were dragging nets through the fountain and pulling up what appeared to be the parts of a wedding gown.

"Any luck?" Sherlock ran up to the first officer he saw, and the man appeared confused to having been approached on what he thought was a crime scene.

"Um...well so far...its just the clothes?" He offered.

"Ah, I thought so. So then, where is the bride connected to these clothes we ask ourselves." Sherlock looked around for a moment. Then he gave a cry of triumph and ran to a nearby bush.

"What's this? I cannot believe you missed this really." He lifted a scrap of paper out of the branches and John peered over the taller man's shoulders to read what it said.

_Meet me as soon as possible. _

_Wherever you prefer, send me the location. 443-561-2334_

_-F_

"F? Must stand for the jealous one at the wedding earlier." One of the police officers chimed in.

"Oh, you're welcome to believe that." Sherlock smirked simply. "John I think our work here is done for now." He turned and left as simply as that.

"Oi! That's evidence! He's withholding evidence!" The confused police officer shouted.

"Trust me, it's better to not make a big deal about it." John sighed, more lost than ever. Sherlock seemed to have solved the case all at once, but John couldn't make heads or tails of it.

John stared at the doors to the church. Tomorrow they'd be entering the building for far more happy reasons. He felt a little sentimental thinking about it, but Sherlock shared none of that hesitance and charged into the building while texting furiously.

John rolled his eyes, feeling a little foolish. He was the one marrying the ignorant man after all.

"Robert." Sherlock greeted coolly as he entered the building, not looking up from his phone.

"Have you find my wife, Mr. Holmes?" Robert stood hurriedly from where he had been sitting in a pew, he wrung his hands nervously but his face remained confident and hopeful.

"Hmm? Oh yes, Hatty you can come out now." Sherlock pocketed his phone and motioned to the doorway.

A small brunette woman came reluctantly into view. At the sight of her, Robert smiled and began to rush forward to meet her but was stopped by the sight of someone else clinging to Hatty's hand.

"Robert. Meet Francine." Sherlock murmured.

Francine was a short curvy woman with a short dark haircut, she lingered next to Hatty's side wearing a slightly guilty look. The look was mirrored on Hatty's own face.

"Robbie...I'm so sorry...please let me explain." Hatty looked as though she might cry, and Robert's face had gone cold.

"You see, Francine was my high school girlfriend. My father didn't approve of us though and tried to break us apart. He said he wouldn't have his daughter marry a woman, especially one that was from the lower middle class when we were rich." She gave Francine's hand a squeeze. "Francie started studying hard and went off to college to learn business, but after awhile we stopped talking. Then I met you, and dad approved so much of us together that I let myself get pressured into the wedding but then Francie showed up..." Hatty put her face in her hands.

"...I understand." Robert replied coldly.

"I really am sorry." Hatty slipped off her wedding ring and pressed it into Robert's hand before running out of the church followed shortly by Francine. Robert stared after them, his eyes looking lifeless.

"My condolences." Sherlock said.

"...Perhaps it was better not knowing." Robert tucked the ring into his pocket before he too left without another word.

"...I thought for sure it was the jealous stripper." John said after the silence grew too much.

"Oh that's what everyone thought, in fact I'm sure the police are interrogating her right now. I knew as soon as I heard about Hatty dropping her bouquet that it was something else. The phone number on the note though that made it childishly easy. I just texted Francine and asked her and Hatty to show up and explain everything to Robert. He deserved that much."

"He deserved that much?" John chuckled. "Are you growing a heart?"

Sherlock scowled but John wasn't convinced, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the pale man's lips.

"Well, we better go home and get some rest. Don't you dare pull another case out of nowhere, or you'll have your own disappearing fiance to deal with." John teased.

The day of the wedding John was surprised to see Robert Walsingham sitting in the pews. Apparently Sherlock had invited him to come, and for some reason or another the billionaire had agreed. He did feel bad for the man.

Of course there wasn't much room in his brain for thoughts of pity when all he could think about was Sherlock. His heart was pounding when it came time for the vows. He thought for sure that Sherlock would give some half-hearted speech about promising not to keep toes next to the milk anymore but what came was surprising and wonderful.

"John. I would never have one moment without you. Before you I never enjoyed anyone's company, but now I could not spend one hour without your presence." Sherlock's deep voice sent shivers into John's body. "You are my other half, perhaps the half I was searching for my entire life. I love you."

"Sherlock, you're a stubborn sod. You're also brilliant, and wonderful, unbelievable really. You've been shocking and amazing me since first we met. I don't think you'll ever stop amazing me, but that doesn't mean you can go running off on your own. I'm going to be around to protect you...mostly from yourself...from now on."

When they kissed, it felt like electricity.

Later, Sherlock attempted to carry John into their room. They ended up supporting each other, giggling as they squeezed through the doorway. John flopped onto the bed, dizzy with champagne. Sherlock lay against him pressing hot kisses to his neck and jaw.

"You wonderful man." John chuckled, running a hand through Sherlock's hair.

"Are you sure you don't want to be Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"No, it always has to be Holmes and Watson, don't you think?"

"Yes. Holmes and Watson. Forever."


	36. Justified Limp

**Teshka said: Hmm...let's see if I can come up with a prompt on the spot...Got one!  
John and Sherlock are married. John gets contacted that he's needed for active service again. He leaves for several months/a long time, I'll leave the time up to you, and returns abruptly when he gets injured. Again, I leave where the injury is up to you, but I think it would be fitting if it would be a bullet wound. Sherlock helps John recuperate (obviously) and...I don't know what from there :) I don't even know if there is a 'from there' sooo...this is really just an outline, you can add or subtract whatever you want, and you don't even have to write it if you don't want to :)**

**You have no idea how often I almost wrote M*A*S*H instead of just "field hospital" in this one. I don't know if they're even called M*A*S*H's in Britain! It's for the best I suppose, I can't imagine Hawkeye and John getting along. Also, I'm just a measly writer with no idea how long a bullet wound needs to be treated or how long until you're walking again or anything so please take pity on my lack of medical knowledge.**

**Hope I got this right, Teshka, enjoy! :D**

* * *

He was to serve one more tour, an estimated nine to twelve months of active duty.

The most agonizing estimated nine to twelve months of Sherlock's life.

He wanted to find the person responsible for John's being pulled back into the nightmare of gunshots and screams, and he wanted to strangle them. No, strangulation was far too good for them. He'd have to think of some other form of torture.

John of course was gracious about it, marched off with a sense of honor mixed in with the dread. Sherlock however was not happy about this at all.

He found himself playing with his wedding ring, a sentimental habit most often found in housewives that have found themselves aware of their husbands affairs. Certainly not the behavior of Sherlock Holmes. Yet here he was twisting the golden band around his finger, studying it as though it were a complicated logic problem. The metal soon grew warm from the constant attention of Sherlock's fingers, and the detective grew tired of his nervous fretting and so tried to find something else to do.

In John's absence the past eight months the flat had gone from bad to worse. With Sherlock free to do what he pleased without John there to command his husband clean up his chemistry set when he was done and to not stab their mail to the wall because it would come out of their rent, the place had gone to hell and back.

Sherlock stepped over a broken Erlenmeyer flask, careful not to brush against the fragments of glass. He paced around the living room, his mind racing. He couldn't remember how he used to live before John came into the picture, he couldn't remember how to live!

When his phone began buzzing he clacked his teeth together in irritation. It was an unwelcome interruption into his thoughts, but with any luck it would be Lestrade calling with a new case. He grabbed up the phone and without even bothering to check who was calling he answered it.

"What do you want?" He growled into the phone.

"Do try not to put yourself into a nervous fit, brother."

_Mycroft. Of course. Tch._

"The question still stands. What do you want from me? I'm very busy." He snapped, collapsing onto the couch and folding his legs up against his chest.

"And by busy you mean of course pacing and staring a mold collection in the bathroom. Won't John be pleased to see that when he returns in two days."

Sherlock Holmes was a man rarely surprised, but at these words he gaped and one could almost picture his jaw comically striking against the ground.

"What did you say?" He hissed.

"John will be returning in two days. He has been honorably discharged due to serious injury in the line of duty. It's quite remarkable really, he's being hailed as a hero as we speak. Apparently he was shot while dragging an eighteen year old boy to safety to perform an emergency surgery right on the battlefield." Mycroft commented, practically yawning with boredom.

Sherlock felt a glow of pride in his chest for his husband's actions, but at the same time that pride was matched by a feeling of dread deep in his stomach.

"He was shot? Again?" He hated how his voice trembled, he could show no weakness to Mycroft it was really unacceptable.

"Don't worry. He was shot in the leg, nothing fatal but for obvious reasons he cannot continue. Right now he's being treated in a field hospital but they'll be shipping him back in two days. I thought I'd call to tell you." Mycroft replied.

"...what do you want? Why are you going out of your way to tell me this?" Sherlock asked, distrustful.

"Sherlock, contrary to what you and your husband believe I am not out to cause you both great annoyance and pain. I am still your brother whether you want to believe it or not." Sherlock could practically hear his brother rolling his eyes on the other end of the phone.

Sherlock sat silently for a moment before hanging up as both Holmes boys would agree that no farewell was necessary.

A jittery sort of excitement and worry began filling Sherlock, he felt as though he would start twitching. He stared at the mess of the apartment and leapt to his feet, filled with the sudden urge to make it all right for John's arrival. Inwardly he groaned at his sudden domesticity but on the outside he began whirling about the flat, dumping trash and old experiments away and disposing of the limbs in the fridge. When he finally finished he stood in front of his work with a sense of satisfaction.

_John is coming home._

_John is hurt._

The two thoughts were wrapped around each other, being thought at the same time at lightning speed. Sherlock didn't know whether to be happy or sad, relieved or worried. So instead of pacing around the flat some more he approached the bookshelf where he had piled folders and folders of notes from past cases. He grabbed a folder, ran slim pale fingers over the tan paper and then began busying himself reviewing past cases.

_Pointless, but effective. _He thought to himself. _Better than counting the seconds and minutes and hours until he walks through that door again._

When John came home, Mycroft made sure Sherlock wasn't at the airport. He foresaw the sort of scene that would occur and so instead instructed Mrs. Hudson to keep the sulking detective within the flat with the threat of revealing to John just how many cigarettes he had smoked in the doctor's absence. Then he sent a car to pick John up and bring him back home.

Sherlock was close to pushing past Mrs. Hudson and running to the airport by the time John finally arrived home. As it was, Sherlock did manage to nearly trip over his own feet running towards the doctor. He embraced him tightly and lifted the shorter man off his feet, allowing the crutches the wounded man had been using to fall to the ground. It was only when John winced and gave a short intake of breath indicating pain that Sherlock let go.

"I missed you." John stumbled, leaning against the car. "But that's no reason to cause me even more bodily harm."

Sherlock sheepishly gathered up the crutches and returned them to their owner, holding his husband steady as he regained his standing position.

"John." Was all that Sherlock managed to choke out, and John leaned up to press a kiss to the detective's lips.

"Help me inside, love?" He asked.

After much fretting from both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock, John managed to make it up the stairs into the flat. He scanned the room for the usual signs of Sherlock being left to his own devices and Sherlock was pleased to see the surprised grin that came from viewing the clean flat.

"You didn't go and do anything stupid while I was away did you?" John teased.

"Of course not." Sherlock smiled. "Although apparently you did. I thought I told you to come home in one piece."

"Well now I have an excuse for my limp." John winked, settling into the couch and laying the crutches against the floor.

Sherlock immediately sat next to John, gluing himself to the soldier's side. He grabbed John's hand, and leaned in towards the doctor just to breathe in that sweet earthy scent that was John.

"You're not leaving again." He demanded.

"Sounds fine to me." John replied with a yawn. Sherlock took the yawn as an invitation to start caring for the doctor immediately.

"Bed." He stated, and actually picked John up. John blushed, he hated it when Sherlock used his extra height to make something like picking up a full grown man easy.

"Hey...what are you trying to do?" He growled.

"I'm taking you to bed." Sherlock pressed a kiss to the doctor's forehead. "I thought that was obvious." He lay John down and then curled up next to him.

"I could get used to you being helpful for a change." John teased.

"I don't plan on leaving your side." Sherlock murmured. "No one is going to hurt you again."


	37. Dealer's Amnesty

John heard his boyfriend stepping slowly up the stairs. John himself had only just got back from work, and had just enough time to collapse onto the couch before Sherlock got home.

He felt a little guilty about letting Sherlock take this case alone, but they did need to pay rent and John insisted on making his own money rather than mooching off of Sherlock's earnings.

Sherlock made an uncharacteristically quiet entrance, shuffling into the flat without a word. After years of dealing with Sherlock running into the room and tossing his coat aside with triumphant cries of how clever he was, John was concerned by this.

"How was it?" He asked cheerily. Sherlock barely even grunted in reply, dropping into his armchair and curling up and tucking himself into his coat.

"Sherlock?" John was really worried now. He walked up to where the detective sat and tried to pull his coat's dramatically high collar away from his face. Sherlock's eyes were half closed and his face looked even more pale than usual.

"I'm okay." The detective muttered, turning his face away.

"Yeah, sure." John scoffed. "Come sit next to me on the couch. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but at least come sit near me."

Sherlock complied, flopping down against John so that his head rested on the doctor's shoulder. For a second they sat in silence, John resisting the urge to cradle Sherlock's head in his hands and ask him what was wrong and Sherlock staring into space. Then Sherlock spoke.

"John. It was my dealer."

"What?" John felt a chill rush up his spine, although he knew perfectly well of Sherlock's past addictions the two of them had never actually talked about it before and pretended the issue didn't exist.

"The deaths. They were caused by my dealer's particular mix of cocaine and heroin." Sherlock muttered. "I tipped off Lestrade and left him to deal with it."

John gaped. Not only was Sherlock feeling what looked like actual guilt...but he had left a case early and left the police in charge. Sherlock didn't trust the Yardies to take care of anything and he certainly never left a case until it was finished.

_His dealer._

_Cocaine _and _heroin._

"Being _my_ dealer, he enjoyed a certain amnesty." Sherlock curled into a ball right there next to John, leaning against the soldier. "He knew it too. His business thrived because I never turned him in." Sherlock's face was full of disgust.

John nodded, trying not to wince.

"Even after I stopped using, I didn't bother reporting him. Whether out of loyalty or lethargy I don't know...and now because of me those people are dead."

John sat in horrified silence. How could he fix this? Slowly he lifted a hand to stroke Sherlock's curly black hair and that soon turned into a tight hug. He could feel Sherlock trembling, and for once the usually aloof detective seemed truly _human_.

"That is not your fault." He said.

"Don't try to reassure me, John." Sherlock growled, his voice muffled against John's chest.

"It isn't!" John spoke more forcefully, pulling Sherlock away from his body so he could look the man in the eyes. "You never put the drugs in his hand. You didn't tell him to go sell them. You didn't tell those people to buy them. They held the needle just as you once did. They chose their death." John looked into Sherlock's eyes...his Sherlock. The man looked utterly beaten.

"Addiction is a sickness." John went on. "And addicts remain addicts their whole lives even if they stop using. Addicts-just like anyone else who is ill-don't make clear decisions." He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "That means both you and the people who died were not thinking clearly. It wasn't your fault."

"John..." Sherlock's eyes actually looked teary, and John's heart nearly broke right there. He had never..._ever_ seen Sherlock cry. He pulled the man into another hug, Sherlock buried his face in John's jumper. For the sake of the detective's pride John tried to ignore the small sobbing noises. Sherlock's hands clung to John's back, pulling at the fabric of his clothes.

"Shhh..." John began stroking Sherlock's hair again, his eyes worried. "Hey. Come here." He pulled Sherlock's face closer and pushed their lips together with determined force. Then he moved his lips downwards, kissing down Sherlock's neck. He worked off the detective's coat and then unbuttoned his shirt so he could kiss Sherlock's chest. Sherlock just sat there, allowing John to administer this form of comfort. John pulled Sherlock against him so they were both laying down, then he kissed him long and hard.

"Everything will be okay." John gave a small reassuring smile, and Sherlock lay against him.

"I am grateful to have you, John..."


	38. Falling is Like Flying

**I'm actually a little disappointed in how this one turned out, but hopefully it still gets the story across. Enjoy!**

* * *

John's breathing was ragged as he attempted to follow Sherlock. The detective was running at impossible speed, it seemed even more impossible when John remembered how earlier that morning Sherlock had been languishing on the couch and refusing to move unless there was a murder.

Sherlock's dramatic coat flared out behind him like a cape as he mounted the fire escape in pursuit of the murderer that had been responsible for getting him off the couch that morning, the thrill of the chase evident on his face.

John swore, wishing he had brought his gun for this one. He was just barely managing to keep up with Sherlock, but he worried about what would happen if Sherlock and the murderer got out of his sight.

They were on the roof now, and the criminal searched hurriedly for an escape. He ran and leaped over the alleyway from one roof to the other.

"We're losing him, John!" Sherlock shouted, and he mounted the edge of the roof.

John felt his heart stop, his breath caught in his throat. For a split second he wasn't standing behind Sherlock on the roof, he was on the street looking up. He could see Sherlock moving closer to the edge. He jumped and for a moment his arms pinwheeled loking like futile wings, as though there was still a chance to save himself. Then he hit the pavement and crumpled up, blood pooling on the ground.

"Sherlock don't!" John ran forward and grabbed the man, pulling him away from the ledge. The two fell over in a tangle of limbs.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, his voice furious and desperate. "Get off me!" He pushed the soldier away and ran to the ledge. He gripped it with both hands and then gave an angry growl, turning back to John with fire in his eyes.

"What was that?" He spat.

"I-I..." John searched for an explanation, but he couldn't say anything. How could he?

"He's gotten away. A murderer has just gotten away, because of you, John!" Sherlock yelled, he gave one last glare before retreating down the fire escape.

John stood up, staring after his friend. He was still shivering, and now his face was hot with embarrassment. Sherlock was right, he just caused a criminal to get away. Guilt weighed heavy in his chest as he slowly followed Sherlock into the night.

When they got back to the flat Sherlock went into his room and closed the door. John tried to drag his eyes away from the door as he pulled out his phone to call Lestrade.

"John?" The D.I. sounded tired, John couldn't blame him after the crime and consulting detective ridden week he'd just been through.

"So did you manage to catch him?" John asked nervously.

"Oh, yeah. Don't worry. We caught up with him a few blocks down and we have him in custody now." Lestrade reassured, and John felt a weight lift from his shoulders.

"Don't let him get to you." Lestrade sighed. "Everyone makes mistakes...and even though he probably hasn't gotten it through his thick skull that you were just scared for his sake, everyone else understands."

"Thanks..." John sighed.

"Good luck."

"Thanks. Goodnight, Greg."

As an afterthought John sent a text to Sherlock about the murderer's fate, knowing that if he tried to knock on the door and tell him in person he'd be refused.

John slid his phone back into his pocket and sat on the couch with a heavy sigh. Sherlock probably wouldn't speak to him for days. He'd interrupted his work and that was the only thing that mattered to the detective. John felt an overwhelming feeling of uselessness fall over him.

_I failed him..._

_...his arms pinwheeling, his coat spreading out like wings in the air. Red blood streaming down his pale forehead..._

John sighed and lay his head back against the couch, shutting his eyes. He wished he could forgot it all.

Sherlock woke up laying on his side and still fully dressed. He lay there for a bit before pushing himself up into a sitting position. His phone was laying on the nightstand next to him, he grabbed it and unlocked it. There was a message waiting.

_Lestrade got him. _

_-JW_

Sherlock blinked, confused by the mixture of relief and irritation that swept over him. He could ponder it later, right now he needed tea and maybe a smoke.

Emerging from his room looking like an angel with bedhead, Sherlock stepped into the living room determined to ignore anything John had to say.

He wasn't expecting to see John asleep on the couch.

_Why isn't he in his room?_ He thought with annoyance. He ran his eyes over John's sleeping form, trying to figure it out for himself. Before his deductions could begin, John stirred in his sleep. He winced, and his hands formed fists.

Sherlock leaned forward, curious about the events of the soldier's dreams. John whimpered, then he bolted upwards shouting as he awoke.

"Sherlock!"

The detective stepped back, shocked. John was panting and clearly still confused as to where he was as most people are when they awaken from a nightmare.

"Sherlock don't..." He muttered.

"Don't what?"

John's eyes snapped upwards and grew embarrassed when he realized who was standing in front of him.

"...Nothing." He sighed, pretending to check his phone so that he could break the awkward stare between them.

"John." Sherlock came closer again. "What were you dreaming about?"

"It was nothing, Sherlock."

"You said my name. You said 'don't'. Don't what?" Sherlock pushed further.

"It was nothing, Sherlock. Just a dream. I don't even remember it." John insisted, still avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

"Don't what?"

"Don't jump!" John finally yelled.

Sherlock gave him a questioning glance, tilting his head to the side, and John shuddered.

"Don't jump." He repeated. "I didn't want you...to jump." He rubbed at his temples, looking at his shoes.

"...you are referring of course to the incident on the roof of St. Bart's?" Sherlock asked smoothly, no emotion showing on his face. John's jaw dropped.

"The incident on...Sherlock I thought you were dead!" John replied with disbelief. "I think I'm allowed a little...trauma!"

Suddenly it all clicked, it all seemed so blatantly obvious...Sherlock was a little frustrated he hadn't already thought of it. Last night he had been on a roof, it made sense that John would have an emotional response.

"Did you think I was going to fall?" He asked.

"What?"

"Last night. Did you think I was going to fall?" Sherlock clarified, sitting next to the doctor.

"...Not exactly. I just...I saw it happening again." John sighed.

"That is not something you'll ever have to worry about again." Sherlock muttered. His mind searched for a way to reassure John, to make him feel safe. Only one option came to mind.

"John, look at me." He demanded, and the doctor complied. Then Sherlock held John's face in his hands and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead. "I promise. You're not going to lose me again."


	39. Drowning The Mind

Sherlock Holmes had always been a man of addiction.

His greatest addiction being his mind, the second biggest addiction being cocaine.

The one thing all of his addictions had in common, the one underlying factor, is that they all came back to addiction number one. If it didn't stimulate his brain, he didn't latch on to it. He was so clever, so self-absorbed, so preoccupied with his mind that anything that could destroy it was barred from him.

At least, that's what John had thought.

After Sherlock's great return from the dead he'd been noticing a new addiction rearing it's ugly head, one that he didn't know if he could deal with.

After years of living with Sherlock he'd learned how to curb all of his addictions from smoking to cocaine, but the one addiction he'd never been able to cure...not with his father, not with Harry, not with anyone...was alcoholism.

John was sitting perfectly straight, staring at the tv but not caring what was on. He kept glancing up at the numbers on the digital clock, they read: 12:47.

There was a pit of dread forming in his stomach, he really would rather be in bed or out shopping or anything but waiting for Sherlock to come stumbling through that door.

The clock read 1:15 when Sherlock finally came reeling into the flat.

John was dismayed to see a half empty bottle of what he supposed was vodka being clutched in those pale white fingers. Fingers that dove into the pockets of a dead man to pull out a letter leading to the killer, fingers that strummed on the violin at four in the morning, fingers that held test tubes aloft, fingers that John fantasized he would someday slip a wedding ring onto...

"Where have you been?" He asked calmly, looking at Sherlock only through his peripheral vision. Sherlock gave a confused look then shook his head.

"Doesn't matter." His words barely slurred, but the slur was still there hidden by the deepness of his voice.

"You should get to bed." John stood, clicking the remote to turn off the tv. He walked up to Sherlock and helped the swaying detective out of his coat. Then he lowered his hand to try and slip the bottle out of his boyfriend's hand.

"I'll keep this." Sherlock rumbled, John could practically feel the words vibrating in Sherlock's chest.

"I think you've had enough." He replied meekly.

"I'll be the one to decide that." Sherlock sneered. "You only worry about this because of your sister. I know how to take care of myself, John."

John knew that excuse. He'd heard Harry say it so many times last Christmas.

_"Johnny, I've only had three glasses so far. I can decide when it's enough, I know how to take care of myself. Stop being so anxious and fetch me some more eggnog."_

__"Sherlock...please." John pleaded, reaching for the bottle again.

"Why don't you go to bed?" Sherlock suggested, making his way into the kitchen where he grabbed a chair to fall into. He lifted the bottle to his pale lips, the contents of the bottle seemed to sparkle on his teeth.

"No. Sherlock, listen to me." John's voice grew angrier. In his head all he could think of was the 3 month coin sitting in his sock drawer, the one Harry had given him four weeks before she'd been back on the booze.

Sherlock ignored him, gulping greedily from the bottle and then staring him down with cold eyes.

"You absolutely cannot do this to me. I've lived through syringes and lighters and bullets for you and the last thing I want to is to do it all over again with a bottle." John growled, and that at least seemed to get Sherlock's attention.

Sherlock's eyes seemed uncertain and they lacked their usual clarity. John hated watching drunks, he hated the way they spoke too loud. He hated the way they laughed at everything. He hated coming home and finding alcoholics hanging out on his couch with lit cigarettes, and Harry asking if it was okay if they crashed at his place after the meeting.

He hated watching Sherlock being drunk. He loved watching him dash about a crime scene with so much life in him.

"Sherlock...what's wrong?" He asked, the one question that had been on his mind the first time he saw Sherlock drink. He leaned forward and finally succeeded in wresting the dratted bottle away from Sherlock, he dumped it in the sink to pour out slowly. Then he took Sherlock's face in his hands.

"...I want to turn off my mind." Sherlock replied, speaking slowly as though words confused him. His words fell clumsily off his tongue.

"Why, love?" John pressed their foreheads together, hating the smell of a thousand and one vintages on Sherlock's breath.

"...I was torn down...he burned the heart out of me..." Sherlock's eyes were nearly closed now, falling asleep most likely. His words didn't make any sense but John recognized who he was talking about.

"I had to stand up there and lie to you John...all these thoughts and not one could keep me from lying to you...not one could stop it." Sherlock slumped in John's arms, and the doctor attempted to fold the entirety of Sherlock's long limbs into his arms. He carried the detective back to their room and lay him against the white sheets, marveling at how easily the pale man blended in to the white.

"John...I don't want to think about hurting you..." Sherlock mumbled, his eyes shut.

"Then don't." John whispered, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's forehead.


	40. The Calm Morning After

**I know the last two fics have been..."feelsy" to coin an internet term.**

**So here's something funny and fluffy. Enjoy!**

* * *

John had decided the moment he woke up covered in bruises and unable to move due to soreness that today they were going to do absolutely nothing.

Not that letting criminals beat the crap out of him wasn't his idea of fun mind you.

He groaned, attempting to steal some covers away from the blanket hog that was Sherlock Holmes. When that failed he turned, shivering, to nudge against the slumbering detective's back.

"Sherl...get up..."

Sherlock grunted in reply, clearly not up to talking yet. At the very least he lifted the blankets and ushered John inside, and the doctor gratefully cuddled up to the warmth.

"I don't know why you need so many blankets, you feel like a space heater." John mumbled against the back of Sherlock's neck. His hands quickly found his boyfriend's hips, squeezing lightly.

"And you feel like an ice block, your hands are freezing." Sherlock chuckled in reply, grabbing John's hands and pulling them into his shirt to warm them.

"It's hard to retain body heat when your greedy lover takes all the blankets for himself." John nipped at Sherlock's ear until the younger man whimpered and pushed John's face away.

"Hungry?" John asked, knowing the answer already. The same answer that questions always brought.

"No." Sherlock pulled the blankets over his head, and John smiled at the sight of his curly bedhead disappearing under a blanket fort.

"Yes, you are. You haven't eaten in two days. I'll make pancakes. Sound good?" John waited for an answer, but when none came he began poking at the lump under the covers that was Sherlock.

"Does it sound good? Huh?"

"Yeeeeees. John, it sounds good. Will you stop pestering me now?" Sherlock whined.

"Yes. Good. Be out of bed in five minutes." John pulled the blankets back to press a kiss on Sherlock's head before getting out of bed. He was wearing nothing but a pair of pajamas bottoms, and as he retreated from the covers he shivered. The nearest piece of clothing was Sherlock's blue bathrobe so he took that and slipped it on.

Sherlock remained in bed, blinking bleary eyes and wishing all the lights were off. He himself was wearing one of John's old white t-shirts, it was even big on John so it hung loosely off the detective's thin frame. After exactly six minutes (because he couldn't follow John's instructions completely when the doctor looked so cute while scolding him) he lumbered from the bed dragging the blanket with him.

"Here. Tea, with the usual insane amount of sugar, and pancakes. You better actually eat this time." John said, placing the plate on the table in the living room (seeing as the kitchen table was covered by a chemistry set). Sherlock flopped onto the couch, pointedly ignoring his breakfast.

"I mean it, Sherlock." John gave his boyfriend a stern look, the kind that usually made lower ranking army men quake in their boots. On Sherlock it only provoked more trouble, because he found that look so irresistibly adorable.

"Why don't you feed me?" He teased.

"You have hands." John pointed out helpfully.

"I rather use my hands on you."

"Inappropriate breakfast conversation topic."

"I could cover you in syrup."

"I prefer jam."

"I could tilt you over the table."

"Only if you clean up your lab equipment."

The boys of 221B snickered at each other like a pair of mischievous kids. Sherlock sighed and took a small bite of his breakfast, using dramatic gestures to show John how proud he should be of Sherlock's great stride forward in the world of healthy living.

"Good boy." John smiled, kissing Sherlock soundly.


	41. Operation Keep John Single

**Though I haven't uploaded anything there yet, I do plan on publishing a few of my original stories on fictionpress pretty soon. I would really appreciate it if you guys checked for stories and told me what you think,(even though it will take me a year and a half to post anything *shot*) thank you!**

* * *

When John's most recent girlfriend, Debbie, walked into the flat she was confused by the sight she saw.

Her boyfriend's flatmate had his feet up on the kitchen table, scowling like a child and attempting to stab John with his fork.

"Um...good morning..." She said it like it was a question rather than a statement, and Sherlock's eyes flicked up and stared at her with shock as though he hadn't heard her come in. His shock quickly turned into a glare as he pulled the offending fork up his sleeve as though he was hiding it to shank someone later.

"Oh, good morning." John's eyes lit up at the sight of Debbie, and he kissed her on the cheek. Following her stare to Sherlock he rolled his eyes with a light chuckle.

"Oh don't mind him. He's not allowed to leave the table until he eats his breakfast." He explained, causing more confusion then he ended.

"...I see?" She giggled nervously, still feeling the heat of Sherlock's glare. Sherlock stared at her a moment longer before turning to John again.

"Ridiculous. How am I supposed to get any work done?" He pouted.

"Try eating. You could be done faster if you just ate." John scolded. "Debbie and I are going out, I'll be back later."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in response, pulling the concealed fork out of his sleeve and spinning it around in his pale white fingers. In a matter of seconds the over-eager John had left with his latest date. Sherlock waited a full thirty seconds, then he sprang into action.

First he deposited the contents of his breakfast plate into the trash.

Second he ran to the window, phone in hand, to watch John walk away with that...woman.

It didn't take long to think up a basic text to send, with a flick of his wrist he opened a text message and wrote quick message.

_Bored_

_-SH_

Then he peered out the window to watch his plan unfold.

John had been about to take Debbie's hand when his phone went off, and Sherlock allowed himself a small smile at the doctor's usual shocked reaction to his phone. He always acted as though the faint buzzing of the mobile was a gunshot ringing in his ears...although that was understandable.

As the soldier pulled his phone out of his pocket with the usual apologetic sigh his hand brushed against something cool and metallic in his pocket. With a puzzled look on his face he tossed the phone to the other hand and reached into his pocket to withdraw...

...a diamond earring.

Sherlock turned from the window, his work was done. Debbie being the naturally jealous type would see the earring and leap to the assumption that John had been seeing another woman. John was now single again.

Sherlock had begun his personal mission to sabotage John's dates just a few months ago, of course he usually did that without trying but...

It was inexcusable how John kept bringing home this absolute idiots! It wasn't that Sherlock didn't want John to have his own personal life, it was just that John couldn't be trusted to pick the right girl! Constantly he paraded these whorish and dull women past Sherlock, as if he wasn't even there...

Clearly he knew that John would never choose him as a romantic partner, seeing as he declared quite loudly on many an occasion that he had no interest in the matter. Sherlock himself has thought he had no interest in the matter until just a few months ago...

He would concede defeat to none but the best woman, and so all the weaker links had to be weeded out.

One date full of couple's squabbling later John shuffled back into the flat with a look of dejection on his face.

"Do you have any idea where this came from?" John asked, exasperatedly displaying the earring. Sherlock gave a vague shrug, pretending to be more interested in the book on dissection that sat in his lap.

John sighed again, dropping the earring on the table in front of him.

"Broken up with Carolyn?"

"Yep. Well deduced." John's voice dripped with sarcasm, and Sherlock nearly smirked at that. " It was Debbie by the way not that it matters. Did you eat?" John asked.

"Yes. Of course, John. You told me to." Sherlock feigned innocence.

"So that's a no then?" John chuckled, standing up and moving to Sherlock's side where he ruffled the detective's hair affectionately. "I'll make you dinner. You better eat this time."

Sherlock turned his head to the side to hide his blush, it was becoming progressively harder to remain impartial in this sabotage business. The more time he spent around John the more he wanted John for himself...

Three weeks.

Three weeks was all it took for John to find another boring woman to spend his time with.

Damn his attractive features.

Her name was Jeanne, but Sherlock chose to forget her name as soon as he met her. He began with the usual observation of her less becoming features. Usually having pointed out her ridiculous breast implants would have been enough to send a girl running for the door but John's usual apologetic nature had kept her around.

Damn him.

He would have to pull out all the stops. What could he do to rid John of this...parasite? She seemed practically impervious to all of his other techniques, Sherlock bet he could plant another woman's underwear in the sheets of John's bed and she'd ignore it.

Sherlock listened to the happy couple giggling as they walked up the stairs. Strange, normally John brought his dates home before he returned, seeing as most of them couldn't stand up to his moody flatmate. Perhaps he was counting on this girl's complete ignorance to shield her.

Sherlock waited until he could hear them just outside the door, they were saying the most nauseating things to each other.

_Honestly...what is the appeal in this type of couple? _The detective groaned inwardly. If only John wasn't so dead set against being with a man. If only Sherlock had a chance, he could show John a relationship full of excitement and intelligence as opposed to nights at home watching reality tv shows or talking with her relatives about boring pointless things...

Finally Sherlock could stand it no longer. This girl who had stood up to all of his usual tricks was about to get the shock of her life. Using this technique would require outing at least half of his plan to John, but that was easy enough. Fake a story about needing him for work or hating his girlfriends-that much was true.

He could do this and still pretend he had no interest in John.

Sherlock walked to the door with determination and swung it open, surprising the two people currently kissing on the doorstep.

"Hello, Sherlock." John gave what most men would recognize as the "get lost I'm trying to get some" stare. Clearly that stare's effect was lost on Sherlock. Instead of ducking back into the flat with an apology so John could continue necking with the horrible woman, Sherlock leaned forward and grabbed John by the arm to pull him into a kiss.

Before John could argue, blush and deny the state of his sexuality, or even question what Sherlock was doing the detective had ushered him into the flat and turned his glare on the woman.

"You are not needed here." He stated simply, then he slammed the door in her face.

Did he feel guilty about that? No, of course not.

For one, he never felt guilty about that sort of thing. No matter how often people told him it was wrong. Two, he was too busy staring at the door and trying to brace himself for John's reaction.

"Ahem." He heard John clear his throat, he was tapping his foot against the ground in an expectant manner like a parent awaiting the explanation of a child who'd just been discovered drawing on the walls. "Sherlock? Planning on turning around anytime soon?"

Sherlock turned with a sheepish look on his face, ready for anything.

Anything except John grabbing him by the hips and kissing him back.

Sherlock reacted quickly, pulling back with surprise and a red face. John was clearly holding back laughter, just barely, his mouth turned upwards in a small grin.

"If you're going to kiss someone, you should mean it. I do hope you don't plan on pulling away anymore." He teased.

Sherlock's questioning gaze begged for an explanation, though he clearly wasn't recovered enough for words yet. Luckily John read his expression well enough to know what he wanted.

"Sherlock, you might think you're the only one in the world that can read people and you might think you're mysterious and clever...but you're like an open book to me." He chuckled. "Did you really think I had no idea you were behind all of my break ups?"

"...that's impossible, how did you know?" Sherlock gasped.

"Because I was setting you up to set me up." John replied. "Did you honestly think I would go out with girls like that? I was giving you such perfect reasons to step in, and all you did was break us up in little subtle ways. Clearly Jeanne did the trick though."

"...I'm afraid I don't understand, John." Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"Ah, for once the great detective is baffled." John kissed his cheek. "Just know that I think you're cute when you're jealous, but that you won't ever have to be jealous again."


	42. Holmes and Watson Again

**I wrote this one on a bit of a whim, the writing style seems a bit unusual to me but I hope you guys like it, enjoy!**

* * *

"So how did you do it?"

John looked up at Sherlock, the tall man in the good coat walking alongside him. That long eventful day was finally over. Sebastian Moran was in handcuffs, Sherlock's name was cleared, and the world knew that Moriarty was real.

Somewhere during the assassin's arrest Sherlock had started walking, and it was no surprise that John followed. They walked in silence through the nighttime mist, John taking extra strides to keep up with the taller man and Sherlock slowing to accommodate the limping man's pace.

"Do what?" Sherlock asked, his eyes searching the night.

"Survive, you sod. How did you survive?" John meant this question in two ways and Sherlock knew it, so he thought of his two answers carefully before replying.

"Well the trick on the roof was actually quite simple, but I don't think I'll tell you about it just yet. It's better to wonder." He smirked.

"You're just saying that because it sounds cooler than what actually happened." John accused, chuckling at his friend's dramatic tone.

"Maybe." Sherlock admitted. "As for surviving after my fall, that was a bit more difficult."

"Did you go back to using?" John asked with a dry mouth and dread in his stomach. Sherlock answered that question immediately.

"A few times. I'm clean now."

"Oh."

They walked down a few more streets, not really noticing where they were going. For a moment John worried that this was it, that Sherlock had come back from the dead to save him and now he was walking off to melt into the darkness and leave him alone again. That idea scared him so he grabbed Sherlock's hand. The detective didn't seem surprised by this, just gave John's hand a gentle squeeze in return.

"I lived off Mycroft's charity for awhile. When I wanted him to stop tracing me I stopped. Joined my own homeless network for a year." He continued.

"I can't imagine you homeless you're too..."

"Clever?"

"Clean."

Sherlock chuckled, brushing lint off the sleeve of his doubtless expensive trench coat. He'd left that coat with John the whole time, and first thing he did after revealing himself to John was to grab the coat and swing it over his thin form. He'd looked too thin without it, like a skeleton. Not threatening or impressive at all. Putting the coat on had been a huge improvement.

"Did you eat well enough? Sleep?" John pressed.

"Always the doctor, John." Sherlock sighed. "No, not most of the time."

"That has to change."

"Doesn't it always?"

They had come to a park by this point, and John felt himself struck with the sudden childish urge to sit down on the swings. For a second he pictured what Sherlock must have looked like as a kid and couldn't help but laugh. He was probably the one child sitting on the bench with a mold sample and a chemistry book while the other kids ran around pushing each other and playing football.

Sherlock sat on the swing next to his, giving him a curious smile.

"So...will you move back in to 221B?" He asked tentatively, kicking at the ground with his feet. He looked ridiculous with those long legs on a children's swing.

"I don't know." John stared at the sky. "Should I? Aren't we getting a little too old for this?"

"John! I'm appalled!" Sherlock smirked. "I suppose you plan on getting married and leaving me to solve crimes on my own then?"

"That was the plan..." John watched Sherlock's smirk melt away. "...now I think plans have changed."

"Have they?" John was having too much fun watching Sherlock go from frowning to hopeful all at once. He really was so easy to figure out sometimes.

"You'll have to make a few changes yourself." John insisted.

"Like what?"

"No more smoking. No more skipping meals. No more running into my room in the middle of the night when you've made a discovery that you think I need to hear about." John gave a stern face.

"You'll be the death of me!" Sherlock exclaimed dramatically. John's face grew dismayed and Sherlock hurriedly looked at his feet.

"Too soon." They both agreed.

"So, do you agree to my terms?" John stood, reaching out a hand in order to shake on it.

"We'll see." Sherlock shrugged, pulling himself up with the proffered hand. He held onto John's hand, pressing a quick kiss against his knuckles before they walked off towards 221B together.


	43. Always Thinking

**Getting close to 150 reviews guys, if we reach that maybe I can be convinced to write another special. The last one was an engagement followed by a few weddings...so this one might be related to children? ;)**

**Also I am proud to say I have uploaded three first chapter stories of mine to fictionpress, I can't be sure myself if they're any good but if you ever want some recreational reading I beg you to read and review the way you have so diligently done here. **

**Thank you and enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom with a towel tied haphazardly around his hips. Water dripped down his pale form.

John smirked as he watched his boyfriend pace anxiously about with no more than a towel on. No doubt the detective was too far gone in his thoughts to bother with drying off or putting on clothes. Well then, John would just have to take it upon himself!

He grabbed a smaller towel and then pushed Sherlock lightly into a chair so he could reach the taller man's dark locks.

"...but why would the sister be there...the inheritance money..." Sherlock mumbled on and on, more thinking aloud than actually telling John anything about his current case. John rubbed the towel over Sherlock's head, smiling down at him.

He was used to Sherlock emerging from the shower with thoughts of his current case scrambling his mind. One time Sherlock actually ran out of the bathroom declaring he'd solved a triple murder and needed to get down to the Yard right away. John had just barely managed to clothe the detective before he walked out of the flat.

John pulled the towel away from his boyfriend's hair and then chuckled slightly. Sherlock's curls had a tendency to dry into a bushy mess, only settling after a few hours. For right now though Sherlock resembled a black lion baring his mane.

John ran his fingers through the black puffy mess, smoothing it out and curling it around his fingers. It was getting longer, and of course Sherlock refused to take time off to cut it when there was a murder to be dealt with. Not that John minded, the detective didn't look so bad with longish hair. Of course if it got anywhere near shoulder length then John might have to shear it off himself.

Sherlock had stopped mumbling to himself and was now leaning against John's hand, sending an unspoken request that John continue. The doctor was happy to oblige, stroking Sherlock's hair and leaving small kisses on the back of his neck.

Sherlock stood suddenly and pulled John to the couch, laying them both down so that Sherlock was laying against John's chest.

"Hey, you should put some clothes on first. You're making me damp." John complained, but Sherlock just stared into space no doubt exploring the deepest corners of his mind palace.

The army doctor sighed and decided that seeing as he was pinned down by the man, he may as well admire his half naked features. Of course just as he was starting to admire Sherlock, the detective sprang up suddenly with a triumphant shout.

"That's it! Oh that's brilliant, I love it when they get clever like this! John, you're brilliant, you're a conduit for intelligence and inspiration really!" Sherlock beamed, running to his bedroom no doubt to get dressed (_thank god_ John thought) before rushing out to tell Lestrade of his findings.

John shook his head, staring after the man with a bemused grin.

"...You're welcome?"


	44. Protect You

He'd been lucky this time.

_"Sherlock I can hear them coming up the stairs, what do I do?"_

_"Just stay calm. Find a place to hide and keep quiet, don't let them hear you and don't hang up."_

Infiltrating the headquarters of the London's most recent high powered gang had been Sherlock's idea, he'd been doing a favor for Lestrade just as the consulting detective always did when he got bored enough. This gang had been selling heroin at an alarming rate, and sending John in to search for where they kept the lethal drug had seemed so simple at the time. Sherlock was needed elsewhere, he had to capture the lead man. John could handle himself, he was a soldier.

_"They'll hear me talking!"_

_"No, John, don't hang up. You don't have to talk but don't hang up. I've called Lestrade, we're both on our way. Find a place to hide."_

_"They're coming in! Sherlock what do I do?"_

He'd been lucky, they could have killed John.

As it was, he was lucky that John was slumbering in a hospital bed kept company by the constant whirring of machines and dripping of IV's-the many things keeping him alive.

At least, that's the view that Sherlock pictured. He hadn't been to the hospital. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft went.

Sherlock stayed at home.

He was sitting in his favorite armchair, the bow of his violin dangling from his fingers and his violin tossed carelessly across his legs. He kept twirling the bow around in his fingers but he couldn't find any desire to play. He kept hearing John's screams in his head, kept hearing the sounds of a bullet piercing flesh and bone. There was no music in his head, just thoughts running about a mile per minute.

His was aware of his phone buzzing. His hand moved with it's own will and opened the text.

_You really should be here _

_-GL_

A scowl fell on the detective's porcelain features. They were all making it so hard for him, the simple normal people didn't understand what he was doing. They didn't understand how much it hurt.

He'd hurt John.

It was his fault that John was being treated for a hole in the chest, his fault that he had screamed in agony and cried Sherlock's name in terror as if he'd been expecting the detective to fall on the scene like an avenging angel and carry him to safety.

John relied on him to keep him safe. He'd hurt John.

That was why the doctor could not continue.

Days later and Sherlock still hadn't been to the hospital. He hadn't even bit out of the flat, he just milled around doing absolutely nothing. Sometimes he lay in John's bed in breathed in the scent of the army doctor, sometimes he smoked in the living room because there was no one there to stop him. Other times he just sat and stared at the wall. A small amount of stubble appeared on his face, and that was the clearest sign of distress. Sherlock always appeared proper and fashionable. Even when dressed in his pajamas or in a bedsheet he was still pale and beautiful. Now he just looked tired, dark circles were more visible around his eyes and his sharp defined angles took on a more saddening look.

This was the man that John came home to.

At first things seemed normal, they both ignored the fact that Sherlock had refused to come visit John when he'd been in the hospital. They both pretended it never happened, and life seemed to go on as usual except that Sherlock had less experiments and less case files draped over the couch. He was more withdrawn, as if he'd gone into the mind palace for good.

One morning when John was laying in bed, staring at the clock and bemoaning the fact that he'd woken up at seven instead of ten or eleven, he heard the detective leaving the flat. John sat up in bed, confused. Sherlock never left unless there was a case involved, and he never left John behind. He grabbed his phone from the bedside table and sent Lestrade a hurried text.

_Did you just call Sherlock in?_

_-JW_

_Yes, are you two on your way?_

_-GL_

John shook his head in disbelief. He'd once had Sherlock burst into his room at eleven at night while John had a girl over because there was a case. Nothing ever stopped Sherlock from making sure John tagged along no matter what sort of distraction he was engaged in.

John shrugged, trying to feel grateful for the chance to go back to sleep. Still, all he could feel was dread.

The next time Sherlock left without John was only a few days later. This time John texted him, asked him what was going on. He'd received no reply.

The next time John followed Sherlock out onto the street and the detective had snarled at him to go back inside and stay away. Then when John tried to disobey the man blended into the crowd and threw John off his trail.

John went home and sat on the couch, wondering what he'd done wrong.

The next week Sherlock was gone most of the time, John tried to fill that time with women and television and searching for a new job now that he wasn't partners with the world's greatest consulting detective, but none of it distracted him from what was going on.

He shuffled back into 221B after a disappointing date spent thinking of what Sherlock could be doing while the poor redheaded girl whose name he couldn't seem to remember asked him what was wrong. He forced himself into the kitchen to make some tea, and that's when he'd come face to face with the business end of a pistol.

"Where's Holmes?" The man growled, jerking his gun in an angry fashion to signal that John submit.

"I-I don't know." John put his hands in the air, trying to seem harmless, all the while searching the room for something to use to his advantage.

"That man has been poking around in my business for too long. You're not going to hide him from me. Where is he?" The man demanded louder, pushing the gun against John's forehead. John felt his heart begin to pound.

"I honestly don't know. He's been gone a lot. Really I don't know."

The man looked like he was about to snarl something else, but at that moment a black glove clad fist had collided with his head. Sherlock appeared behind the man, growling something unintelligible. John fell backwards, watching as Sherlock lifted the man by his throat and tossed him onto the kitchen table where dozens of beakers and test tubes shattered and impaled the man's skin. Sherlock was beating the man around the head with a force John had never seen from him, and soon John realized he was up on his feet again pulling Sherlock back.

"Don't you ever touch him!" Sherlock screamed, his face contorted in rage.

"Sherlock, don't kill him." John nearly laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. The man on the table was slumping into unconsciousness and Sherlock was still shaking with anger.

"Don't you ever touch John or so help me I will destroy you!" He yelled, and John put a hand on his chest and looked his flatmate dead in the eye.

"Sherlock. Calm down. He's not going to hurt me." He spoke quietly, hoping to soothe the detective back into rational thought. Sherlock took a deep breath, leaned against John and gave a rattling sigh.

"Sherlock...?" John asked, and when Sherlock looked at him he could tell exactly what it was he was asking. He wanted to know who this man was and what he was doing here. More importantly he wanted to know why he hadn't been a part of this, why John hadn't been chasing this killer down with Sherlock, why he'd been banished to the flat for some reason.

Sherlock sighed again and buried his face in John's shoulder, having to slouch to do so.

"John...I can't have you hurt again..." He murmured into John's shirt. "I just can't. What if you die? What if it's my fault? I can't protect you...you can't come with me anymore because you'll get hurt..." He was in tears now, though he'd never admit it. Even if John did feel the wet drops seeping into his shirt or hear the wrenched sobs, he would deny any crying.

John's eyes were wide, and he found himself running a hand through Sherlock's hair making calming shushing sounds.

"Sherlock. I can take care of myself, and in case you haven't noticed you just picked a man up in one hand to protect me. I don't feel unsafe at all." He whispered into the detective's ear. "Just don't leave me behind again please? I don't like it, and I don't want to have to worry about you either. You could get hurt too you know."

Sherlock pressed a kiss against John's neck and the doctor did not protest.

"I can't let you get hurt." He repeated.

"You won't." John pushed Sherlock back up into a standing position so they could look into each other's eyes. "I'll be fine." He reassured.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, determined to keep him safe.


	45. Dear John

**142 reviews and counting, remember guys 150 reviews earns you a story about their child, and if we get it up to 200 then I'm gonna allow, you, the readers to suggest what sort of reward you deserve ;)**

**This story gave me a hell of a time. It's changed so much and I'm not even sure I'm satisfied with how it turned out, but at least I finally finished. Enjoy!**

* * *

Bailey had been homeless for a little over a year now. After running away from home when she was seventeen and catching the bus to London, she'd eaten through her cash quickly and had resorted to begging. She didn't like to beg, and she didn't get nearly as much money as she needed. So when her fellow beggar, Tristan, introduced her to the famous consulting detective she agreed to work for him happily.

He had all the homeless of London running errands for him, whether it was picking up a name or keeping an eye on a suspect, or maybe fetching him cigarettes so his flatmate wouldn't know or any other odd jobs he had.

Of course after he "died", there was a lot more work to be done.

Bailey hovered behind the detective, wrinkling her nose at the constant stream of cigarette smoke that was carried on the wind right into her face. She stood at attention, like a soldier awaiting orders, while the detective paced. The man pulled the cigarette from his mouth and crushed it under foot, pulling another from his pocket.

"You'll take this message to him. He should still be at Baker Street." Sherlock spoke with smoke curling around his lips, holding a piece of paper wrapped in a fiver out to Bailey without even looking at her.

"Okay..." She peered curiously at Sherlock, the man who was supposedly dead. He turned and stared back at her, his cold eyes stabbing into her being.

"Also..." He added. "Where is Kington nowadays?"

"Mr. Holmes...you don't wanna associate with that man." The beggar girl protested but the detective fixed her in another stare and she fell silent.

"Tell me."

"...He's down on Snow Hill. Afternoons mostly." She murmured.

The detective nodded without a thank you, so Bailey took it as a sign to leave.

She knew her way to 221B by heart, it didn't take long to find her way to the door. She thought she was going to have to knock, but it appeared that the man she was looking for was just walking up to the door. He looked haggard, like he hadn't slept in days. He limped as he walked, and looked at the ground.

"'scuse me sir." She cleared her throat, brandishing the scrap of paper. The man turned around and she saw some form of recognition in his eyes.

"...yes?"

"This is for you." She passed him the paper and then vanished into the crowd without another word.

John stared after the girl with a confused expression, the full importance of what had just happened didn't occur to him until he realized who it was he had once known that sent messages through the homeless network. His heart stopped and he pulled the folded paper open so quickly it nearly ripped.

The message was written in that familiar self important scrawl.

_Not dead._

A sob broke through before John had time to stop it.

"That...bastard." He half cried half laughed, folding the paper back up and slipping it into his pocket.

Somewhere along the way Bailey realized that she had become the personal messenger for Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Every day she met with the tall thin man behind St. Bart's and ran whatever note he had down to where the doctor waited outside 221B.

_John,_

_Hunting down the assassins. May take some time. I hear the first one shares a certain habit with me, going to interrogate his dealer. _

_Sherlock,_

_Stay safe. Don't give in to that habit while you're there._

One day Sherlock didn't show.

"Mr. Holmes?" Bailey crept around the corner of the hospital, staring into the dark alley that she was so accustomed to the man emerging from. Lately he'd been showing up covered in injuries just a little worse than your usual nicks and dents. Could he have gotten himself into trouble? She pictured John's face whenever she brought him one of Sherlock's notes.

_John_,

_Your new flat is very disappointing. Move back into 221B at once._

_Sherlock,_

_I thought the point of this was to lay low. If you want me to move back in, try not being dead._

_John,_

_Your attempts at wit are not appreciated._

_Sherlock,_

_I love you too._

Two more days passed without any sign of Sherlock.

Bailey asked around with the other "Baker Street Irregulars" and no one knew where he could be. It was only on the third day that someone came up with word of the detective's whereabouts.

"I found him down here. He looks like hell." Tristan led Bailey down a tight alley over crates and trash cans. She nearly cried out when she saw the detective laying tangled in the midst of the garbage, his coat spread out like the broken wings of a bird and dried blood covering his pale skin.

"Should we call someone?" Tristan asked, pulling his tattered ill fitting coat closer around himself.

"He's supposed to be dead, we can't just drag him into a hospital." Bailey chewed her lower lip. "His friend. The one I'm always bringing notes to. He's a doctor I think. We can get him."

"Alright. You go get him and I'll stay with Mr. Holmes." Tristan waved her away and Bailey ran as fast as she could to get help.

_Sherlock, _

_Please tell me you haven't been back on the needle._

_John,_

_I need my wits held together at the moment. My usual pastimes would be a distraction. Do not worry._

_Sherlock,_

_Saw that one assassin on the news. Murray. You didn't kill him did you?_

_John,_

_Your faith in my character is, as always, astounding. I did not kill him. One of his associates did. Only one more now, Moran._

John struggled to keep up with the homeless girl's quickened gait, his leg picking an inopportune time to stiffen up. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest and worry was eating away inside him. They quickly reached the spot where she said Sherlock was laying. John crawled over the crates and boxes to where another of Sherlock's homeless network was kneeling over the tangled and beaten detective.

"Here...can you give us some space?" John tried to keep his voice steady as he lifted the pale man's head off the ground.

"Yeah sure..." The Baker Street Irregulars backed off, leaving John to care for the detective.

"Oh you stupid sod..." John felt tears pricking at his eyes but he ignored them, pushing himself into soldier mode he grabbed the medkit he'd brought with him and began fixing what Sherlock had broken.

Sometime during, Sherlock awoke with a small murmur.

"...John?"

"What the hell did you do this time?" John growled, his eyes full of concern.

"You shouldn't...be here. If he sees you with me then he'll make you a priority target..." Sherlock sighed, pushing himself up.

"So I should let you bleed out?" John folded his arms over his chest. "What happened?"

"...pushed out a window." Sherlock smirked ever so slightly though John saw nothing funny about it.

"John..." Sherlock sighed and leaned against the doctor. "When you're done, go somewhere safe. I'll end this fast and come home."

"You seem to think I can't take care of myself." John huffed, tying the last bandage.

"John, for my peace of mind." Sherlock insisted, his hand laying lightly over John's.

_John,_

_He's getting sloppy. I'll have him soon._

_Sherlock,_

_Hurry._


	46. Defensive

John had finally convinced Sherlock to get out of the flat and find something to do besides cause the destruction of Mrs. Hudson's walls. They'd walked around London for a bit and John had listened to Sherlock describe the private lives of the people they passed. Things had gotten a bit dicey when one couple overhead his deduction of how often the husband saw his mistress, but they'd managed to get away while the couple was busy fighting.

Now they were sitting in one of the many coffee shops on the street, John talked about work and Sherlock at least had the decency to pretend to listen. It was all very normal and very calm until the people at the table behind them recognized the famous detective and blogger combo.

It was two men and their girlfriends, John saw one of the women tug on her boyfriend's sleeve and point him and Sherlock out. The man smirked and whispered something, which John felt did not bode well for him and his date. Then he stood up and walked over to John's table.

The man was stocky and tall, sporting a dark beard and a darker leather jacket that looked like it cost several hundred dollars.

"Hey! It is Sherly!" He declared, and John gave a confused stare. While their fans were often loud about the detective's identity, they rarely called him 'Sherly'.

Sherlock however was not confused, rather he had a look of painful recognition on his face.

"...David." He greeted.

"You were right, Tanya, it is him!" The man now dubbed David shouted back to the girl at the table, who ran up and joined her friend.

"Do you remember us? From high school?" Tanya beamed, her face disgustingly fake.

"Yes." Sherlock stated simply.

"Can't believe it! You're some type of celebrity now!" David smirked. "Big difference from school, huh? Hey now, who's this?" David pointed at John.

"This is John."

John shook the man's hand, studying his boyfriend carefully. He knew these David and Tanya people were exactly the kind that Sherlock usually had no respect for. So where were the biting sarcastic remarks and the hateful glances? Sherlock was being so...docile. Something was up here.

"No surprise you turned out to 'bat for the other team'." David winked, elbowing Sherlock roughly. "Should have known the way you squealed whenever me and the boys roughed you up a bit."

"Excuse me?" John stuttered, Sherlock looked as though he wanted to melt into his seat.

"Oh, we were just playing really." David chuckled. "Sherly here was always an odd one, we had to teach him a lesson now and again."

"He was a real freak." Tanya wrinkled her nose. "Always telling people the weirdest things. Are you still like that, Sherly? Tell me what I had for breakfast this morning!"

"Alright, that's a little inappropriate." John said through gritted teeth. "This isn't high school anymore, let's not use the word freak."

"Bagel." Sherlock muttered, answering Tanya's earlier question.

"We're just playing with him." David insisted. "Besides, freak is putting it nicely! You should know, you're shagging him aren't you? What's that like?"

Sherlock looked as if he was on the verge of regaining his confidence and making a scathing remark but he remained silent.

"Well...it was nice meeting you but we're gonna be on our way out soon so..." John glared, though he couldn't start anything right now he could drop a hint.

"Yeah, yeah. See you around, Sherly." David wrapped a thick arm around Tanya and walked off with a sneer. John rolled his eyes and turned back to Sherlock who was studying the table with an fierce intensity.

"Alright. What's going on?" John asked. "You never let anyone talk to you like that. What makes them special?"

"Nothing." Sherlock's eyes narrowed into a glare and he folded his arms over his chest. While most people would see this as anger John read it as the embarrassment it really was.

"Sherlock, come on I won't think any less of you. I know tomorrow you'll be as rude as ever, but why weren't you rude to him just now?" John pressed, leaning his leg against Sherlock's under the table.

"...He's one of the reasons I added fighting moves to the mind palace." Sherlock muttered. "After school him and his gargantuan friends used to amuse themselves by physically abusing me."

"So he hurt you?" John felt anger rising up in his chest. Sherlock shrugged, leaning back in his seat.

"A juvenile problem I assure you. Nothing I would have the energy to hold against him now." Sherlock stood to leave, waiting for John to join him. However the doctor was staring at David and Tanya.

"Hang on, love. Wait by the door." John instructed, knowing that what he was about to do was petty and wrong. Still, he was going to enjoy it. Sherlock sent him a quizzical look as he stood up and approached the old high school tormentor.

"Ah, hello again." John gave a fake smile before grabbing David's coffee off the table and pouring it over the man's lap and several hundred dollar leather coat. Then he crushed the remaining paper cup against the huge man's head. "That's for calling him a freak. Bye!"

Grabbing Sherlock's hand he tore out of the coffee shop with the angry former-jock chasing after them, completely drenched in scalding hot coffee. Sherlock and John ran a few blocks, giggling like crazy before they finally lost him.

"Well, that was immature of me, but no one hurts my boyfriend without dealing with me." John smiled triumphantly.

"John, that was amazing." Sherlock replied.

"Brilliant?" John suggested.

"Fantastic." Sherlock agreed.


	47. 150 Reviews Special

**150 reviews, we did it! So as promised here is a story about a Sherlock and John family. Enjoy!**

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Every day John had just enough time during his lunch break to come home and eat with Sherlock, or to at least attempt to get his husband to eat. Most of the time they just shared coffee and talked about their days until John had to go back to work.

Today however when John made his way up the stairs and opened the door to 221B, there was an extra person in the flat.

John walked in and saw two identical heads of curly black hair on the couch, one of them darted down to hide as he walked through the door.

"Sherlock..." John sighed. "Why is Arthur home so early?"

"A small incident occurred. Nothing to be concerned about." Sherlock turned to look at his returning husband, his face calm and unwavering.

"A small incident that required he leave school? Again? What happened." John rounded the couch to where Sherlock and Arthur sat. It appeared that the eight year old was trying to hide his face in his father's blue bathrobe, though John could still make out pouting lips and scornful eyes, one of which appeared to be bruised.

"Oh god...Arthur." John gently pulled the child out of his sanctuary to examine the black eye. "Not too serious but you need ice on this...Arthur what happened?"

The child remained silent, sulking in the exact manner that Sherlock always did. John shook his head and went to the kitchen to retrieve some ice and Sherlock left the couch to follow.

"From the positioning of the bruise I can tell that he was fighting more than one person." Sherlock mentioned.

"Children. Sherlock they weren't brutal attackers they were other children, and you know as well as I did that he started that fight." John hissed just low enough that their son wouldn't hear.

"Actually..."

"Sherlock, I do not need you to deduce what happened I need you to get out there and tell him that fighting is wrong." John cried exasperatedly. "He'll listen to you, for whatever reason you're the only one he listens to." John rubbed at his temples with a sigh. "Was he suspended this time?"

"Yes." Sherlock stared at his husband with unreadable eyes, his hands finding the spot on John's shoulder where a bullet had once pierced the skin and was now prone to tight stress knots. He worked his fingers against it and John leaned his forehead against Sherlock's.

"Were you this much trouble as a kid? Clearly your DNA won out in the surrogate race, so you can't blame this on me." John teased, though Sherlock's lips formed a disapproving pout.

"Father."

The couple that stood intertwined in the kitchen turned at the sound of their son's voice. They both knew which one of them was 'father' and which one was 'dad', so Sherlock left to go see what Arthur wanted. He leaned down over the couch so that the eight year old could whisper in his ear. A smile spread out across the detective's face and he whispered something back before making his way back to John.

"What was that all about?" John folded his arms over his chest, not liking the looks of things.

"Well for one he's figured out my phone's password again." Sherlock said, his voice full of pride. "Two, Lestrade needs to see us."

John rolled his eyes, he better call in to work and tell them he needed the rest of the day off. By now he knew that 'us' meant all of them and no way he was letting Sherlock take Arthur to a crime scene by himself. Heaven forbid that ever happen, who knows what they'd do!

"When we get home we're talking about what happened at school today, you got it? Both of you?" John addressed the two detectives in a soldier's voice.

"Hurry up, John!" Sherlock replied, hurriedly dressing himself as he walked through the living room. John looked down at Arthur who was still perched on the couch with his father's phone, no doubt texting Lestrade asking for more details.

"Why me?" John sighed.

As soon as they arrived on the crime scene Sherlock and his little shadow took off for the body, John trailed behind them. A part of him was happy that Sherlock had finally found someone besides him with whom he could bond, another part was still jealous that the only resemblance Arthur and him had was that they both wore jumpers. He was also worried, what if all this fighting at school was because of everything he saw while out and about with his consulting detective of a father. Surely witnessing the work of a murderer was not good for a child's development.

John walked up to Lestrade and after a grunted greeting the cop and the doctor watched the two pale figures examine the body.

"What can you tell about the bruises around the neck?" Sherlock quizzed, and Arthur leaned in to examine the dead women's neck.

"...They're from hands, not rope. These ones here are long fingernails. So she was killed by another woman." Arthur replied and Sherlock gave a nod of approval.

"Good. Now the hands."

"Now that's just uncanny." Lestrade whistled. "We'll have to hire this one too pretty soon. Does he work for juice boxes?" He cut off his joke mid laugh when he saw John's irritated face.

"Oh lighten up." The detective inspector sighed. "The kid's a natural and he's enjoying himself. It could be worse, some kids his age are holy terrors."

"I'm afraid mine is turning into a terror, do you see the bruise on his eye?" John groaned. "He's just like him, Greg. _Just_ like him."

"I never thought there'd be two of them. God help us all." Lestrade chuckled.

"As if we needed more than one." Came the usual whiny retort from Anderson.

"Oi, belt up." Lestrade shot back. "That's his kid you're talking about. Act your age."

Suddenly Arthur ran up to Lestrade and pulled on the detective inspector's sleeve, his eyes bright. Lestrade knelt down to look the child in the eyes.

"She was killed by her sister, who wanted her husband." He stated simply, turning to walk back to Sherlock's side. Then he stopped and turned around again. "Obviously." He dropped the word into the air and let it hang there dripping with that usual brand of Holmesian malice.

John's jaw dropped.

"Sherlock. Here, now." He growled, trying to ignore Lestrade's stifled laughter. Sherlock walked up to John, unabashed.

"Yes?" He asked softly.

"Did you tell him to say that?" John snapped, not the least bit amused.

"No."

"So he just decided to talk back to an adult all on his own?" John sighed. "We need to talk to him when we get home."

"He did well." Sherlock commented. "He noticed the hairs under her fingernails."

"He talked back to an adult. Using your words mind you." John rolled his eyes. "Priorities, Sherlock."

"Fine. Let's go home and have a family scene. I however am very proud that he has learned to tell the difference between different strangulation bruises."

"Priorities!"

Dinner at the Holmes-Watson residence usually took place around a chemistry set, though John had told Sherlock many times that he would have to move it he still didn't. After dinner Mrs. Hudson came up with some biscuits for Arthur, who she had begun calling her grandchild. Then it was time for the talk.

"Arthur, you want to tell me what happened in school today?" John was sitting in his chair across from the couch where Arthur sat. Sherlock was busy tinkering with acids on the dinner/laboratory table.

Arthur sat silently, looking at his children's sized Oxfords. His lips began to pout and he avoided John's glance.

"Arthur." John said a bit more fiercely. "I am your father. You can tell me anything, and you must tell me what happened today."

"...I was helping Rose."

"Rose?" John tilted his head, the name was unfamiliar to him. It was probably just a girl in Arthur's class, still he'd never heard of her before.

"Rose." Arthur nodded. "Her dad was deployed and some big boys were making fun of her saying he didn't love her."

"...really?" John felt an intense disgust for whatever kind of child that would make such an outrageous comment.

"I told them they were idiots."

There it was again, that undeniable bit of Sherlock that Arthur so easily emulated.

"Then they told me to go away and tried to pull Rose away with them. So I fought them." Arthur nodded. "Some grown ups came and got us all in trouble."

John sighed, he would have done the same thing. How could he yell at his kid for doing something that was technically right? He could teach him that hurting was wrong but in this case all he was doing was protecting someone innocent...

"I like Rose." Arthur said suddenly, cutting into John's thoughts. "She can be my partner. Like you are to father."

John gaped, then he smiled.

"A crime fighting partner?" He asked, chuckling.

"That too." Arthur replied slyly, and that's when John really started laughing. "She's strong and clever so she can help me. Plus she's twelve so people take her more seriously. That will help when dealing with the police."

"Alright well you're off the hook for now, but fighting it still wrong you got that? Next time try to think of another way to solve things." John ruffled his son's hair. Fighting off boys, outnumbered, to save a cute older girl? Maybe there was some of him in this child after all.


	48. His Heart Was Locked Tight

**So we're at 199 reviews already which is pretty crazy. Just one more until 200. You guys are giving me zero time between specials, thank you so much for all the feedback. I am now accepting suggestions for the 200 review special, so tell me what you most want to see!**

**Enjoy.**

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Everyone knew the famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.

They knew his face, they knew the hat that everyone assumed he wore even though he didn't, they knew his many feats, they knew he once took a fall and came out alive.

They read about him in the papers, saw videos on the news. Lately he was all over the news, because being off the scene for so long had made him hungry for new cases and new problems and he was devouring everything Scotland Yard and private customers had to offer.

Despite all the stories no one knew him as well as John Watson.

John worried about him, but only for the same reasons as usual: not enough sleep, not enough good, too many cigarettes, too many nights spent playing the violin until his fingers bled.

It was nothing like the sadness he felt when he thought Sherlock was dead. So he just smiled and made sure he was there to keep Sherlock from collapsing.

John wasn't sure when it happened, it must have sneaked up on him. One day he was sitting in a chair listening to one of Sherlock's frantic violin concerts, and when he turned around to see the man walking about the room with his violin to his chin-looking like a marionette that was slowly breaking free of his strings-

He realized that his heart was bursting with love.

"Sherlock."

John placed a mug of tea on the side-table that stood to the side of where Sherlock had perched. He was on the couch, palms pressed together and placed against his lips. Sherlock nodded, pretty much ignoring the tea for the time being.

John sat watching him over the steaming rim of his own mug, then on a whim he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the detective's forehead, using a tender hand to push back his raven black curls.

Sherlock had jolted away like he'd been slapped, and with that violent reaction John left the room feeling foolish and humiliated.

Sherlock made no reference to the kiss for the rest of the week, and John was happy to see things carry on as usual. However there was something about kissing Sherlock that he just couldn't ignore, so he found excuses to get closer to the detective.

He leaned against him when he was tired and his leg hurt, he let his fingers linger when he passed Sherlock his phone, he slipped his hand into Sherlock's while they were walking home.

Sherlock always just pursed his lips and allowed it, his eyes looking like the eyes of a kicked dog.

"Have you ever dated anyone at all?" John asked, simply for curiosity's sake. Sherlock looked up from his violin, placed the rosin down on the table and fixed John with one of his dark stares.

"...No." He said after some hesitation. Then he began tuning his violin like the conversation was over.

"Why's that?" John pushed, and Sherlock's violin made a comical surprised sound as his fingers plucked too soon and too fast out of shock.

"It's not my area." He said simply, his voice growing dangerously deep. He sounded like a jungle cat, his voice rumbling low in his chest.

"Not your area like...are you asexual? Or do you just not care?"

"...John." Sherlock sighed. "I don't put any faith in love. It's not a science, it's not proven. Love is just something two people believe in for the time being so that they can both leech off the other. More often than not people split apart and once again love is proven to be a weakness and a farce."

John didn't ask anymore questions after that.

John was only slightly annoyed when Mycroft showed up at the grocery store. For awhile he pretended the man wasn't hovering behind him looking ominous and government...government-y?

He knew the Holmes brothers loved a touch of the dramatic, so he refused to appear shocked or amazed by Mycroft's sudden appearance. He just kept filling the cart with odds and ends until Mycroft approached him.

"You are pursuing my brother." He said sharply.

"I have to pursue him sometimes. Mostly when he's found a pack of cigarettes. Sometimes it's because we have to go out and he doesn't want to get dressed. What's your point?" John replied calmly.

"We both know what I mean, Dr. Watson." Mycroft sighed. "I'm not here to criticize you for your choice in partners or to discourage you. Honestly I think it would be quite beneficial for you to engage in a relationship with my brother...I would worry less about him. I just wanted to warn you."

"Warn me about what, Mycroft?" John threw his hands in the air in frustration. "I've seen everything from the heads in the fridge to the needles in the closet. What more could there be?"

"Sherlock, as you know, is not very keen on relationships."

"Big shocker. Thanks for warning me."

"I want to explain why." Mycroft rolled his eyes, fearing that his brother was rubbing off on the good doctor. "You see, Sherlock grew up believing certain things. The stupidity of the human race, that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains no matter how improbable must be the truth. Most of all he believed in our mother."

"Mommy's boy?" John raised an eyebrow. "Typical child genius type, then?"

"For all his deductive powers of logic and observation Sherlock could never see our mother's large line of affairs." Mycroft continued. "Until the day our father discovered her in bed with one of her lovers and banished her from the house. Sherlock was ten. Since then a great distrust of woman and even more so a great distrust of any romance period has been bred in his heart."

"I see..." John nodded, it made sense after all even if Mycroft had said it.

"So be careful in pursuing my brother." Myrcroft warned, turning on his heel and looking over his shoulder. "You may end up only hurting yourself or him."

John returned home to see Sherlock curled up on the couch covered in a blanket and shouting at the television. Whatever he was watching it must have been poorly written because every minute or so Sherlock would fling himself from the couch screaming: "Idiots!" or "Wrong!" worse still "Your refusal to see the obvious offends me!"

Watching Sherlock watch telly like a normal human being was...adorable.

John let the groceries remain in their bags for now, nothing needed to be refrigerated and it's not like it could make the clutter of their flat any worse. Instead of putting the groceries away he sat down next to Sherlock.

"How was your day?" He asked.

"Dull." Sherlock replied without looking away from the screen.

"I was stalked by your brother today."

"Hm."

"It looks like his diet is going well. Are you going to sabotage it again?"

"Hm."

John sighed and leaned a little closer to the detective, his hand itching to reach out and take Sherlock's in his own. Eventually the urge grew bigger until not only was he unable to deny it but he was unable to stop at just Sherlock's hand. He looped his arm around the detective and pulled him gracefully to lay in his lap. For a moment his heart pounded and he awaited some biting response, but Sherlock just stretched his legs out onto the couch and continued watching tv like the whole thing was just a convenient arrangement that allowed him to use the whole couch.

"Sherlock..." John began, his mouth dry.

"Hm?"

"I think...I'm in love with you."

John felt Sherlock's body stiffen, and for one fearful moment he thought was about to lose him. Then...

"I know...I feel similar."

"You know the usual response is 'I love you too'." John joked out of fear. Sherlock turned his head and looked up at John with innocent eyes.

"I have...never done this before. I do not know what qualifies as love."

"Well then...why don't you just try with me, okay?" John suggested, knowing he was probably blushing. Sherlock nodded and John picked that as a safe time to pull Sherlock's face up to press a gentle kiss to his lips. Sherlock seemed to enjoy the sensation because he refused to let John pull away, his arms snaking around the doctor's neck. Their kiss grew deeper until finally they separated panting for breath, Sherlock's lips were bruised from kissing.

John realized that the blanket had slipped further off Sherlock's form and that he could see the white thin expanse of the detective's chest.

"Erm... are you wearing any clothes under the blanket...?" He blushed, and Sherlock took on his customary smirk.

"Care to see?"


	49. Caught in a Closet

**Sorry it's a short one today guys, been caught up on one of my original stories, but I still wanted to update today so here's a short little treat.**

**Still awaiting your suggestions as to what the 200 review chapter should be. Enjoy.**

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_God _he picked the worst moments for something like this.

They'd been out all night chasing a gunman down the streets of London, and now that they'd finally caught him they found themselves dragged to Scotland Yard to make their statements. Of course Sherlock was clearly having none of that seeing as the moment Lestrade had his back turned he'd grabbed John by the wrist and dragged him off into a storage closet.

"Sherlock..." John protested as the detective pressed hot kisses against his neck. Sherlock only moaned softly in reply, his teeth catching against John's skin.

"We have to..." John tried to remember exactly what it was they were supposed to do but it was hard when Sherlock had his hands prying at the buttons on his shirt and his tongue prying open his lips. Sherlock pulled John in close and deprived the man of air with a particularly hungry kiss. Apparently John wasn't close enough because the doctor found himself being lifted up and pushed onto a nearby shelf so that Sherlock could have a better angle.

John wrapped his legs around the detective's thin frame and Sherlock obliged by pressing closer. By now he'd stripped John of his shirt and tossed it aside, and John tried not to think about what would happen if someone walked in at this moment.

"This is not a good time!" John tried to protest.

"I don't care." Sherlock rumbled, his hands dragging across the bare flesh of John's chest in clear admiration.

"We're in public."

"We're in a closet."

Sherlock gave a tiny thrust forward and it was not missed by the doctor who currently had his legs wrapped around him. Sherlock smirked at the appreciative moan and moved in closer to bite and suck at John's neck. He wanted to leave a mark, he wanted all of Scotland Yard to see that he had claimed John Watson.

John began to return the amorous actions, pressing Sherlock into a deep kiss. Their tongues mingled in sheer bliss while John wondered if he could get the coat and shirt off Sherlock in a timely and effective fashion. He was on the second button when the door swung open and engulfed the room in light.

"Bloody hell...really?" Lestrade yelled. "You couldn't wait ten minutes to give a statement and go home?"


	50. Play Me a Lullaby

The whole flat was quiet.

It was two o'clock in the morning, anyone who wasn't drunk, high, or insane had already gone to bed. Sherlock, who had been all three of these things at at least one point in his life, was awake. He was sitting at the bottom of the stairs with his eyes half shut, listening.

Anyone who knew the consulting detective knew that he considered sleep unnecessary, that he tended not to sleep much at all. As of late, however, he'd been getting even less sleep then the usual three or four hours per week. He'd taken up this ritual of sitting at the bottom of the stairs and listening ever so carefully, like a watchdog.

Normally what he was listening for made itself known around midnight to two, but he waited all night just in case.

Just in case John cried out in his sleep.

There it was, the faintest murmur that soon grew into an anguished yell. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and with a flick of his wrist he'd grabbed his violin from where it sat leaning against the wall. He propped it up under his chin and lowered the bow to the strings with expert grace.

He'd written John a song, he might never admit it to his face though. Still, he'd written it for him, to play for him whenever his dreams of the war became too much. When he played something soft and almost sad and longing, John's screams would fade and his breath would even out into the peaceful breath of one that slumbers.

Sherlock played the whole song through even though he could hear that John's nightmares had dissipated within the first few measures. He liked to think of John asleep with a small smile on his face, unconsciously listening to the song Sherlock had written for him.

When the song ended he collapsed back onto his perch, letting the violin lay on the floor. His eyes lowered against his will and a yawn broke unbidden through his lips. Lips that then formed a scowl at the weakness of the human form. With no willpower to move to his bed or to the couch, Sherlock simply leaned against the wall. He figured he could rest an hour and wake up before John left for work in the morning.

For once the great detective was wrong.

Hours later John's alarm clock rang out, and the doctor slammed a hand into the snooze button with all the hatred he could muster. Stretching out his leg which had gotten stiff during the night, he rose from his bed to get dressed. He pulled on one of the jumpers that Sherlock always teased him about and a pair of jeans. Then with a yawn he trod down the stairs seeking some form of caffeine.

What he did not expect to find was a consulting detective asleep on the stairs.

"...Sherlock...?" He whispered, mostly to himself as he wasn't sure he wanted to wake the man. He stepped carefully around his flatmate before turning to study him. You didn't need Sherlock's observation skills to know that the detective looked beaten and tired, pale and curled up on the stairway with his violin's bow clutched in one thin hand.

John took a step back, and it was the sound of that footstep that had Sherlock blinking awake. His eyes widened in shock when he realized how late he had allowed himself to sleep, then he yawned casually and leaned forward to set his bow down next to his violin.

"Morning." He rumbled.

"Good morning...?" John tilted his head with a slight chuckle. "Was your bed not good enough?"

"...I ended up here." Sherlock explained vaguely, avoiding eye contact.

"Did you sleepwalk?" John pushed, but he was met by one of Sherlock's mysterious looks.

"No." The detective tried to stand but his limbs had fallen asleep from laying in an awkward position and John had to catch him before he tumbled down the remainder of the stairs.

"Whoa, careful..." John looked concerned, and Sherlock loved to see concern on his friend's face. "Are you alright, Sherlock? Why were you on the stairs. Be honest."

"...No reason...I just heard you cry out." Sherlock muttered, still leaning against the doctor for support while his legs regained feeling.

"Oh." John was well aware of his PTSD wrought nightmares. For awhile he'd worried that he bothered the detective. Could that be it? Was Sherlock trying to say that John made it impossible to sleep?

"I didn't want you to be scared so I came here." Sherlock nodded sleepily. John's eyes fell on the violin and for some reason a melody floated into his mind, something that seemed so familiar but that he couldn't possibly have heard anywhere before.

"You didn't have to do that...wait..." John started to put it all together. Weeks of Sherlock looking even more like hell than he already did. Finding his treasured violin sitting on the stairs all the time as opposed to safely locked in it's case and then there was that strange melody...

"Sherlock have you been here every night?" John asked.

"...Yes." Sherlock admitted.

"Playing violin when I have a nightmare?"

"Yes."

John smiled, all the people in the world that thought Sherlock was a cold calculating robot were dead wrong and only he got to know it.

"Well you still need sleep too." John scooped the detective into his arms, it wasn't hard considering he weighed next to nothing. Then Sherlock to his own room where he deposited him onto the bed and pulled the covers over him. "None of this 'sleep is boring' rubbish either.

Sherlock was fixing John with a peculiar look, as if he couldn't decide whether he enjoyed or was annoyed by having been carried to bed.

"Alright." He finally consented, turning so that his curly haired head lay against the pillow. John turned to leave the room, but a thought struck him. Sherlock had been helping him sleep for the past two or so weeks. He should return the favor. So before he could chicken out, he lay down over top of the covers next to Sherlock and wrapped the younger man in his arms.

Sherlock simply gave a sleepy whimper and pressed up against the doctor, happy to be in his arms.


	51. 200 Reviews Special Part 1

**Sorry for the unexpected hiatus, readers. I've been busy with homework and having my girlfriend tutor me in the ways of this "tumblr".**

**Today's special is brought to you by Birdie7272 who said: My suggestion for a special is a kidnapping story. Not quite fluffy but you can end in fluff because you like it.**

**Actually I just studied human trafficking and kidnapping in issues class so it was about time I wrote this, and I tried to harden it up a bit to fit the hard theme of such an event. Coming up with some cool criminal name for the kidnapper was the worst, I finally found something but it doesn't sound nearly intimidating enough in my opinion but oh well. Hope you enjoy!**

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**John**

"Sherlock, I can't just take off from work whenever a new case comes up." John sighed as he entered the flat, expecting to see the pale ghost of his flatmate waiting anxiously by the door.

The doctor had just received a barrage of text messages from the detective explaining in great detail that John needed to leave immediately to join him at Lestrade's latest crime scenes. Apparently it was the third body to show up decapitated on the same street, how fun!

"Sherlock?" John surveyed the empty room. "Are you even...did you leave without me...?" John sighed.

It had been barely a week since Sherlock's last case, he'd closed a whole branch of a large human trafficking syndicate that had been operating in London. Sherlock had been unsatisfied with the result, claiming that he may as well have not even bothered if he couldn't find the head of the organization.

Even after John had reminded him of the two dozen lives he'd saved, Sherlock had persisted in pouting. Maybe it was a good thing he had another case to distract himself with.

John pulled out his phone, shooting Sherlock a quick annoyed text.

_Left without me? If I'm going to take off work you could at least wait for me._

As he texted he noticed a shadow flicker across the surface of the screen. John frowned and turned behind him.

Nothing.

Then there was a sound, the creaking of a floorboard. John froze and his mind went into tactical mode.

_Gun._

_Sherlock had it last. Finding it? Hopeless._

_Other weapons?_

_Sherlock keeps a sword under the couch. No, I made him move it to his room. Damn._

The footsteps grew nearer and John shifted quietly away from the doorway into the kitchen, pressing his back against a nearby wall. His hands balled into fists and he debated whether or not he could reach the lamp in time. That's when the owner of the footsteps moved into the room, and his partner who had remained crouched unseen behind the couch rose up and grabbed the doctor.

John actually did manage to get the lamp up and smash it over one of his assailant's heads, and the man cursed before crumpling to his knees. The other larger man who had grabbed John by his throat, swung the doctor around to slam his head into the floor. John's vision blurred and he swung wildly at whatever was in front of him, his legs upsetting the side table where the lamp had stood.

His attacker kept a tight grip on his throat, and John's body cried out for oxygen as everything went black.

**Sherlock**

"This is going to be a good one." Sherlock drew in an excited breath as he studied the bloodied corpse. He was enjoying himself immensely and there were two reasons for that. One being that this mystery was becoming ever so complex and he seemed to have found himself another puzzle to solve. Another reason was that Donovan had a clear aversion the the headless corpse and so he could study it without her babbling interruptions.

However he was not enjoying himself nearly as much as he could have been with Dr. Watson absent from his side. He'd been forced to leave without the doctor as he'd been taking too long packing up at the office.

"...Honestly why hasn't he quit already...?" Holmes muttered under his breath as he knelt by where the pool of blood had mingled with the thick December snow that coated the ground.

"I'm sorry, what?" Lestrade tilted his head and Sherlock, realizing he'd spoken his thoughts aloud, waved a dismissive hand.

It was odd for him to speak his thoughts without knowing, normally he kept his thoughts tightly locked up and the only other time he could think of himself muttering without knowing was...

_"IOU"_

_Headless body. Focus._

Suddenly Sherlock's phone buzzed and the detective smirked. No doubt John was realizing his mistake in coming so late. He flicked the phone out to see he had two messages. The first was normal enough.

_Left without me? If I'm going to take off work you could at least wait for me._

The second was more baffling and disturbing.

_Ad;'d;lajgc_

Sherlock's brow furrowed. John's phone had been smacked against something rather hard, unintentionally striking several buttons. Unless the doctor had begun throwing his phone in frustration, something was wrong.

John was in danger.

The thin detective did not give the corpse so much as a second look. He rose from his kneeling position and stormed off the scene.

"Hang on, where are you off to?" Lestrade hurried to keep up with the detective's determined stride. "Are we done here?"

"John. Something's not right." Sherlock stated rather than explained. Lestrade seemed to understand though as his face took on a concerned look. Sherlock tried to avoid feeling irritated that Lestrade was not only worried for John's wellbeing but mostly worried for Sherlock's emotional state. Somehow people had begun to notice his growing affection for the doctor, and it was becoming most bothersome.

"Want me to come with? I can take a few of the boys if you want." Lestrade offered.

"Tag along if you want. No others. I don't need you all blundering about in my flat." Sherlock sighed, hailing a cab home.

As soon as the detective stepped foot in the door he knew something was wrong. His eyes took in all the information and his brain mapped out the incidents.

_Strangers. Two of them, one tall the other far shorter. One hid in the kitchen, made noise to draw John's attention. The other was behind the couch. John how could you not see him...? Focus. _

Lestrade was on the phone, calling the incident in. He wasn't wasting a moment, however it really wasn't necessary. Sherlock was going to find who did this to his John and make them hurt.

_They made their move and John fought back. Excellent, used the lamp. I should have left his gun out for him. He hit the first man hard and he fell but the other still had the element of surprise. Knocked over furniture in struggle. Deprived him of oxygen and dragged him down the stairs before returning to awaken his compatriot._

"I want officers looking on every street, do you hear me?" Lestrade finished, snapping his phone shut and shoving it into his pocket. His eyes flickered over to Sherlock, who was standing stock still in the middle of the room.

"Don't worry. We'll find him." He assured. Sherlock's eyes snapped up and fixed the detective inspector in a glare.

"I don't need you to find him, _I _will find him." He growled.

"Look, Sherlock as much faith as I have in you..." Lestrade sighed. "I really think you should let us handle this one. This is a matter for the police."

"You keep your men away from this, I don't need them sullying the trail." Sherlock hissed. Without John there to remind him that Lestrade was only trying to help he began to feel furious with the man who was standing in his way.

"If you run after them like this you're going to make an even bigger mess than even Anderson could." Lestrade insisted, but by this point Sherlock was shouldering past the yardie and taking the stairs two at a time. He would begin his search immediately.

**John**

He awoke with a bag over his head, his wrists and ankles were bound tightly. The air tasted stale and his head was pounding. In the distance he could hear a man talking. He assumed he was on the phone because he couldn't hear anyone responding.

The voice drew nearer and John could make out a few words.

"...make this easy...endure every torture my business..."

The voice sounded like silk with a steely edge to it. Suddenly John heard whoever was talking draw nearer, and someone grabbed him.

"Here's a sneak preview." The man hissed and suddenly there was a cold pain shooting down John's shoulder. There was someone behind him, stabbing him right where his shoulder had never healed right from Afghanistan. John screamed and his arms fought against their restraints to no avail.

"Checkmate." The voice had an audible smirk to it. John felt the sickening motion of the knife being pulled from his body. He was just beginning to come to terms with the dizzying pain when a needle went into his arm.

Everything went dark.

**Sherlock**

Sherlock was still out at two in the morning, scouring the streets of London for the tracks of the kidnappers. Footprints in the snow had turned into muddied tire tracks which had become indistinguishable from any other of the millions of tracks.

Sherlock felt defeated. The one moment where he needed to be clever the most and suddenly his confidence and energy were gone.

At this point he was looking frantically and practically punishing himself by pushing his body to keep running and leaping despite his lack of sleep.

He tried to ignore his phone but after it buzzed a third time he finally picked it out of his pocket. Two text messages from Lestrade were blocked out by the urgent call currently coming through. The number was blocked, but Sherlock knew exactly who it was going to be.

"Who are you?" He growled furiously into the phone. There was some hesitation on the other end, then a chuckle.

"You know me. Great brilliant Sherlock Holmes, surely you know me. You closed down my west division last week. I didn't like that very much." The voice said smoothly.

"Really?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, even though his stomach was twisting with dread. "Trafficking boss seeks revenge. Am I supposed to be surprised?"

"You're not supposed to be surprised, Holmes. You're supposed to be worried for your dear friend Dr. Watson." The man replied.

"What is your name?" Sherlock pushed, ignoring the comment.

"I'm called Encantado. Do you get why?" The man now known as Encantado asked in a purr.

"Old Brazilian folklore. A river spirit that resembled a snake. It would become a human to seduce and kidnap unsuspecting people." Sherlock rambled off, just another random fact from within the mind palace.

"Very good." Encantado replied. "A spirit that loved human depravity. It would join the party and then take home whatever treats it wanted."

"Stop wasting my time." Sherlock snarled. "I don't want to hear about your ridiculous nickname or folklore!"

"Let's make this easy, shall we?" Encantado sighed. "Look. You are never getting Dr. Watson back again. Call it petty but I do enjoy revenge. He will endure every torture of my business. I'll sell him off from bidder to bidder so they can beat him, use him for manual labor, maybe play around with him a bit. Ooh, I bet you wanted to do that first didn't you?"

Sherlock nearly crushed the phone in his hand, his body was shaking.

"Whatever they want to do to him, I'll allow it. You can just forget about saving him. Consider this a courtesy call."

"I will find you." Sherlock warned.

"Doubtful, and if you ever do you can watch me finish off the good doctor myself. Here's a sneak preview."

John's screams filled Sherlock's ears and for a moment everything that had once been crystal clear in his observant eyes suddenly became dull and hard to read.

Encantado laughed. "Checkmate." He whispered, and then the line went dead.


	52. 200 Reviews Special Part 2

**It was hard fitting this whole story into two parts. In fact an epilogue will be needed so hang on for that. I had to cut a lot of things out of this chapter but I hope it still meets your expectations. Enjoy!**

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**Sherlock**

He had to find John. It was the only thing on his mind.

His options were limited, maybe if he'd accepted Lestrade's help they could have traced the call. Of course he didn't need his help.

There was a constant pang of worry stabbing at his insides, John's screams were replaying over and over again in his head.

_For every injury they cause him..._The detective thought furiously, _I will remove one of their limbs. _

Sherlock shook his head and shoved his phone into his pocket. _Focus. Emotion will not help John._ He needed to throw off all this anger, worry, and guilt so he could focus on saving the doctor. Still he couldn't help but feel that the whole situation was his fault. He finished a case and John became the target. It was the liability of caring about someone too much.

_Caring..._

Sherlock filed the thought away for later as he began to plot. He would have to locate a trafficking center, find out where they were selling off those unlucky enough to be captured. If he could get into the organization then he could find his way to the ostentatiously named leader.

His mind raced with plans.

_Disguise myself as homeless. The homeless are excellent targets, no one to miss them. _

He turned and ran back to Baker Street, pushing his exhausted body because there was no time. There was no high, no thrill, involved in this case to keep him going.

He got back to the flat, dragging in bits of snow with his shoes. No doubt Mrs. Hudson would have his head. He tried to ignore the battered living room, if he pretended the overturned furniture and the shattered lamp were just the usual clutter...

He paused for a moment. Laying, thrown carelessly over the back of a chair, was one of John's jumpers. Sherlock's eyes rested on the familiar sight, and his pale fingers ran over the soft material. He lifted it to his nose and breathed in John's scent.

"I'll find you..."

**Sherlock**

If anyone saw the shambling and tattered figure walking along the street, the one that donned a bulky jacket a size too big and some messy looking stubble, not a one would suspect it was actually the famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes in disguise. He was good at hiding who he was, sometimes he'd come home from a case still in his makeup and nearly give John a heartattack just for the fun of it.

He'd been walking this section of street for awhile now, the first sign of dawn had yet to show so it was still dark out. Dark enough to steal someone away without being seen. Sherlock walked down the most dangerous alleys and passed by the gathering places of criminals, playing himself as bait. If he kept at it long enough...

"Hey you."

Sherlock turned, a rough looking man holding a cigarette was gesturing to him. He shuffled over and the man looked around for a bit before talking again.

"You look like you could use some work, mate." The man said in a low growl.

"You got work?" Sherlock disguised his normally eloquent speech behind a more casual accent. No need to tip the man off to his real identity.

"Yeah, mate. Good work. You interested?" The man let out a puff of smoke into Sherlock's face, not that the nicotine addict minded.

"Why not? What do I need to do?" Sherlock shrugged.

"Me and my boys, we'll be around in a few minutes. We can take you to where you'll work." The man nodded. "Just wait here, I'll go get 'em. Wait here, mate." The man dropped his cigarette and crushed it underfoot, working ash into the gritty snow. Then he turned and left to gather his associates.

Sherlock shifted from side to side, impatient to get it over with. He was wasting too much time, by this point they'd be drugging John and selling him to the highest bidder. With any luck Encantado would be saving him for a special buyer, that could give Sherlock some extra time to find the doctor. Once John had been sold it would make it that much harder to find him.

"Hey, mate." The gruff voice came again, and Sherlock prepared for transport.

He was struck in the back of the head with something heavy and solid, and everything went black.

**Sherlock**

It wasn't the first time the consulting detective had woken up in the back of a van. He wasn't planning on doing it again.

He was blindfolded, but he could hear just enough of the action on the streets to tell where he was. He tried moving his hands and found they were bound with rope.

_Child's play._ He smirked and let the knife he'd been concealing in his sleeve drop into his hands.

Once he was free he tore off the blindfold and blinked in the darkness of his surroundings. There was enough of a barrier between the back of the van and the driver's seat, but Sherlock could hear the driver and his passenger muttering to each other through the two fenced off windows. There were two other people in with him, a man and a young girl. The man was shivering in some sort of panic attack whereas the girl lay against the floor. They hadn't bothered to tie or blindfold her, and one look at her eyes told Sherlock why. She was under the effects of heavy drugs, no doubt she'd been passed through the circuit for at least a year. Sherlock felt disgust rising up in him, but he didn't have time for these two. He'd have to save them by taking down Encantado.

He slid to the back of the van, making minimal noise so as not to alert the driver just yet. He would stay here until they reached their destination.

Finally the van came to a stop and the kidnappers slid out of their seats complaining about the cold as casually as two non-criminals might.

Sherlock balled his hand into a fist and grabbed the rope they'd used to tie him with in the other. The doors opened and Sherlock came face to face with the man that had approached him earlier, he landed a good punch to his nose and another to the stomach before the second man ran to subdue him. He wrapped the rope around his neck until the man passed out from oxygen deprivation, by this point the first kidnapper was recovering from his blow to the face.

Sherlock jumped out of the van and onto the man's chest, the kidnapper's head hit the ground with a sickening crack. He moaned and was out cold like his partner.

Sherlock took a step forward, then looked back. Sighing he climbed back into the van and used his knife to free the other man.

"Where the hell am I?" The man screamed, and Sherlock covered his mouth with a hand.

"Try not to alert everyone in the surrounding area and listen if you have the brain capacity for that." He sighed. "Take that girl there and go find help. The hospital would be good. Now run."

Then the detective jumped out of the van to see where he'd ended up.

They were parked outside a nondescript building, most likely at the back door. The shipments would come through here and the buyers would come in through the front door.

Of course there was no guarantee...no chance that John was here. This was just the first step. He had to find someone higher ranking then the fools he'd just laid out, someone who would know their boss's location.

Sherlock picked the lock on the door and slid inside without a problem. The hallway was dark and the whole place smelled like smoke and booze.

The hallway was lined with doors, and at the end of the hallway Sherlock could hear voices. Out of curiosity, Sherlock opened one of the doors and instantly wished he hadn't. He'd seen it before of course, but even the hardened detective that some suspected of being an emotionless machine could still be disturbed by the monsters he hunted. In each room was a girl tied down to the bed, her eyes glassy with drugs and her sheets stained with vomit and various other bodily fluids that weren't from her. Sherlock felt new rage, if they'd done this to John there would be no place they could hide.

He ran ahead to the room at the end of the hallway. He realized that the voices were those of bidders screaming prices.

He crept in through the doors and blended in to the back of the crowd. The room was large, packed with shady characters of all sorts: gangsters, general perverts, politicians, crime syndicate leaders and more. The whole room was a who's who of crime. Up on a stage in front were two men, one of them handling bids and the other holding a scantly clad woman wearing a dazed expression and a pair of zip tie restraints.

"Sold!" The man yelled and a white collar criminal pushed his way past thieves and muggers to claim his new prize. Sherlock eyed up the room, searching for his target.

"Next up. Male, white, good build. You can use him for whatever you like for an hour only. Personally I'd go beat him up a bit, that's how I spent my lunch break. Bids start at six hundred twenty five."

Sherlock's eyes drifted up to the stage and he froze. The odds were phenomenal, impossible even.

He was beat up, one eye swollen and various cuts visible on the bare chest and on his face.

John.

**John**

After he'd heard the phone call and been stabbed by both a knife and a needle, the rest of John's captivity was fuzzy and his memory untrustworthy. He had dim flashes of being dragged around to an empty room, strangers coming in and beating him while he was tied up.

There were brief moments of clarity between doses, and right now standing on the stage in front of the crowd of leering criminals he could feel his senses kicking back in. He was barely even standing, mostly held upright by one of his captors.

Any other man would have been scared, but Captain John Watson was mostly furious.

There was no reason to be scared at all really, because Sherlock was coming. Sherlock would save him.

The entire time he had been subject to various tortures, Sherlock had been the only thing on his mind. He remembered being covered in bombs and used as Moriarty's bargaining tool, and how Sherlock had saved him and looked at him with concern in his eyes. He thought about the man's amazing abilities, and he knew he was getting out of here alive. Sherlock would make sure of it.

He thought of Sherlock so often that when he saw the pale man making his way to the stage, at first he thought it was a hallucination brought on by his drug addled mind.

The hallucination of Sherlock was bidding on him, screaming ludicrous amounts of cash. John actually chuckled thinking about how Sherlock couldn't even pay his rent on time. Apparently no one else was willing to outbid him because someone shouted 'sold' and suddenly John was being dragged off to his familiar torture chamber.

Five minutes after he'd been tied up and left in the room, the man that John was beginning to believe actually was Sherlock entered the room.

"John!" He chocked and fell to his knees to free the doctor. Worrying hands ran over cuts and bruises with a tenderness that John had forgotten.

That's when three men entered the room and pressed a gun to the back of Sherlock's head.

Sherlock raised his hands, his face furious and embarrassed by the defeat. The two other men grabbed Sherlock's hands while the third kept his gun leveled at his head. Another man entered the room, and when he spoke John recognized the voice that had been talking when he first arrived.

The man was wearing a fine suit, and his dark features were finished off with a pair of dark narrow eyes.

"I told you it was hopeless." He sighed. "Didn't I tell you you'd only cause trouble for your friend if you tried to follow me?"

Sherlock snarled like a wild animal and the men tightened their hold on his wrists.

"Knock him out. Take him to my room. When he wakes up he can watch the good doctor die." The kidnapper sighed casually, looking at his nails.

The man with the gun slammed his weapon into Sherlock's head, the detective crumpled. Unconscious, unknown to John, for the second time that day.

Then they dragged the detective out of the room, leaving John screaming Sherlock's name after them.

**Sherlock**

Sherlock awoke in a lavish office, an glaringly opposite room compared to anything else in the shabby building. Sitting before him with his feet up on the desk was Encantado. The tan man was aiming a gun at Sherlock with casual almost lazy attitude.

"You up yet?" He yawned. "It's time to watch Dr. Watson die."

Sherlock looked around the room using his peripheral vision. No other men. Just the two of them.

"Where is he?" Sherlock growled, meanwhile slipping the knife that had been so helpful to him all day into his hand. Normally he never used this sort of thing against a person, but this was a special case.

"He'll be in in a moment." The kidnapper smirked. "So clever, clever enough to shut down a whole branch of my finest and yet here you are with a big bruise on the back of your head and no way out."

"I wouldn't say there's no way out." Sherlock said slowly.

"There's nothing that says 'no way out' quite like a gun." The kidnapper remained him, dangling the weapon in front of him.

"I still have one last chance." Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes.

At that moment one of the men ran into the room, frantic. His eyes landed on his boss and he began yelling from where he stood in the doorway.

"Boss there's-"

"I thought I told you bitches not to bother me!" Encantado shouted, leaping up from the desk and poking his subordinate in the chest with a stiff finger.

"Boss, it's the Yard! They've found us!" The man yelled, before abandoning his leader in favor of running from arrest.

"Shit." Encantado swore, leaning out of the door to see if it was true. While he was distracted, Sherlock grabbed him from behind and pulled him back around. The gun went off and the detective was aware of some pain in his arm as the bullet grazed him.

Disarming the surprised man was easy enough, then Sherlock shut the door with a well aimed kick and dragged the man back a few steps.

"I have a very good memory." He hissed, drawing the knife out of his pocket. "I saw what happened to my friend, John, and I plan on making you a mirror image."

"Fuck off." The kidnapper choked.

"I once dropped a man out a window for hurting my landlady. What you did was much worse."

**John**

When Sherlock had bent down to attempt to untie John, he'd heard the men making their way towards the room. That was when he slipped his mobile into John's hand and had the doctor conceal it long enough to send for help.

John pawed at the screen with numb fingers, somehow being able to laugh at all the ignored messages from Lestrade. No doubt Sherlock was breaking numerous laws at the moment, and all for him.

He better not risk a call, someone could hear him talking. So instead he sent a text, quickly telling Lestrade of their location.

When he'd finished he dropped the phone and lay back against the wall. Still half in a daze, it was easy to fall asleep then and there.

_The crazy bastard. He really did come for me._

**Sherlock**

"Just once, could I pick up a suspect without them being in dire need of medical help?"

Irritated, was not a word one would used to describe Greg Lestrade. Furious, maybe, or perhaps bloody pissed off. He was standing in the doorway while his men swept the building for stragglers and emergency teams evacuated the prisoners to hospitals. Meanwhile he was busy lecturing Sherlock, which was not in his job description when he signed on.

The detective, who was bleeding from a minor gunshot wound on his arm, hardly gave Lestrade the time of day. In fact he tried to push past him through the door.

"Now hang on!" Lestrade pulled the man back. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going to go rescue John." Sherlock sighed, his voice tired as if he had no energy for sarcasm and wit. He just wanted to take John somewhere safe. "As I intended to do from the start."

Lestrade let go, shaking his head. "Yeah, alright. Take him to one of the ambulances, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, running off in search of the room where he'd seen John earlier. It took him a few tries but even weary and dizzy from being unconscious twice in the same day, the world famous detective still had it.

He saw John, laying against the wall breathing laboriously. Sherlock removed the oversized coat that had been part of his disguise, and wrapped the doctor in it. Then showing a great show of strength for someone so pale and thin, he lifted the man into his arms and carried him past the police and outside to the ambulance.


	53. 200 Reviews Special Epilogue

**John**

He woke up to the familiar sounds of a hospital, and somehow that was calming.

He opened his eyes slowly, wincing at the brightness of the lights. Then he tried to push himself up into a sitting position.

"Here, easy mate." Lestrade appeared at his side, helping him to sit up. John nodded and as he did he noticed a familiar head of dark curly hair resting on the bed. It appeared that Sherlock had dragged a chair over to the bed and had fallen asleep in a bent position that could not be comfortable. It also appeared that he had handcuffed himself to the metal railing on the edge of the bed.

"Should I ask...?" John gestured towards the cuffs and Lestrade sighed deeply.

"They weren't going to let him see you. So he traumatized a few nurses and cuffed himself to the bed. With my cuffs by the way. The doctors asked me to help but that is so not my problem." He rubbed at his temples like the whole ordeal had been very stressful but soon both him and John were erupting into laughter.

"How are you feeling?" Lestrade asked, and John shook his head.

"I couldn't tell you."

"Yeah, well, I'm no doctor but as far as I can guess you had the shit beaten out of you. Not to mention they had to set your arm."

John glanced down at his left arm, surprised to just now be noticing that it was broken. Then again, his thoughts were still moving slowly, he could be in shock.

"Did you get him?" John asked.

"Well. Sherlock got him really, and by got him I mean he's a couple rooms down the hall." Lestrade replied.

"What?" John blinked and then looked back down at the slumbering detective. He noticed that Sherlock was dressed in a ratty old t-shirt and jeans as opposed to his usual formal wear. He also noticed the dark bruises forming along the top of his head.

"By the time I found Sherlock, I wasn't sure who to arrest." Lestrade shrugged. "I can't always look the other way for him you know, you have to keep him in check. That man was near death."

"Hard to keep someone in check when you're unconscious in another room." John replied coolly, and Lestrade made a dismissive gesture.

"Just from now on. You know what I mean. You have this way with him. Don't ever get yourself kidnapped again, he might set London on fire trying to find you." Lestrade stifled a yawn. "Anyway. I'm going to get some coffee. Want me to bring some back for you and sleeping beauty there?"

Just a few hours ago John was tied up and having strangers beat him up, he was on the verge of being sold for sex or labor. Now here he was drinking coffee with Greg like everything was normal.

"Yeah. Thanks."

**Sherlock**

Lestrade nodded and left the room, and as the door shut Sherlock began to stir. The detective made the soft noises one makes when awakened unexpectedly, then lifted his head with a yawn. John stared at Sherlock until he realized he was being watched, then the two just looked at each other for awhile.

"John." Sherlock rumbled.

"You need to give those handcuffs back you know." John replied quickly. Sherlock regarded the cuffs with a self satisfied smirk, and decided that since there was no danger of being dragged away it was safe to release himself. He pulled a key from his pocket and unlatched the cuffs, tossing them to the floor.

"So...you found me." John's voice cracked a little more than he would have liked.

"I will always find you." Sherlock promised.

"Did you get knocked around a bit?" John gestured to his own head, indicting the bruises on Sherlock's. Sherlock's hand flitted up to touch the tender bruises and then he shook his head.

"Nothing dangerous." He reassured.

"Well you should still go back to the flat and get some sleep." John said and Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but John just talked over him. "I don't need a nearly concussed and tired Sherlock snapping at every doctor that comes in to help me. Get some rest and then come back."

"I won't leave you." Sherlock growled fiercely. "I just got you back."

"Well you need sleep and it can't be comfortable bending over like that." John blushed, Sherlock's protectiveness was a new side of the detective that John liked very much.

Sherlock looked at his feet, considering the idea. Then he waved his hand with the traditional "the great Holmes has an idea" face.

"Simple. We share the bed."

"I know you're a skinny bastard but hospital beds are very small." John was falling back into the normal repartee that he and Sherlock shared. It felt good to just ignore that past and talk with his friend.

By this point Sherlock was clambering into the bed next to John, kicking off a pair of weather beaten sneakers to the floor below.

"By the way, those clothes..." John began, scooting over to the edge to accommodate the detective.

"Disguise. I had myself kidnapped."

"You got yourself kidnapped to rescue me?" John asked, impressed. Sherlock moved slowly to press himself to John's side.

"I am glad you are safe, John." He sighed, his eyes fluttering shut.

"That's thanks to you, I suppose." John chuckled, and unbidden his hands rose to stroke Sherlock's hair. Sherlock leaned into the hands and then grabbed one in his pale fingers and pulled it down to his lips. He pressed a chaste kiss into John's palm, his eyes still shut.

John blushed, that was certainly not a friendly gesture. Certainly something more, but he wasn't uncomfortable with it. He was starting to think that being with Sherlock is what made him most comfortable-what made him feel safe.

"Lestrade tells me you put my kidnapper in the hospital." John commented, his voice betraying no emotion. Sherlock opened his eyes, his face full of annoyance and anger.

"If anyone ever tries to come at me through you, I will do the same thing again." He growled.

"Alright, alright calm down. No one's after me just yet. Go back to falling asleep." John sighed. Sherlock was still holding his hand so he let his fingers intertwine with the detective's. "I bet you haven't slept in days. Still on a case high and worried for me."

"Well you were drugged and beaten and you're still awake." Sherlock pointed out, his voice layered with sadness.

"Do as I say, not as I do." John smirked. Sherlock turned and wrapped his arms around the doctor, laying his head on John's chest.

"No one is ever going to take you again." He muttered.

"I know." John yawned. Sherlock pushed himself up for a moment to brush a kiss against John's lips, neither one of them questioned it or thought about what it implied. It wasn't the moment to think about that. Right now both of them were just relieved the other was alive and mostly well.

Sherlock went back to his earlier position and John lay down against the pillows, and they both slowly fell asleep.


	54. Fireworks

**I'm surprised that no one has done this one yet. **

**A common sight in people with PTSD is an aversion and fear of fireworks. They associate the sound with explosions. Its something that I think is really sad.**

* * *

It was a cold November night and the residents of 221B were curled up in their flat, avoiding the cold of the outside.

Sherlock was dressed in his pajamas in bathrobe, sitting in his armchair and reading a rather large and dusty book. John was sitting on the couch with his laptop, mostly wasting time answering emails.

There was someone firing off fireworks nearby, the blasts were sounding off loudly and color reflected through the curtains into their living room. Sherlock was mostly blocking out the sound, focusing in on what he was doing. He had the ability to block out any outside noise if he wanted to.

Any noise except the one that was now making itself known.

John had whimpered.

Sherlock's eyes flicked up from his book, and he looked over to where John sat. The doctor was still staring at his computer screen, but every time a firework erupted into the sky he winced. The wince would stay on his face giving him the look of someone in constant pain. Then as the next firework went off, a tremor shook John's entire body and he gave a small sound of terror. Closing his laptop, attempting to look casual about it, he made a move to leave the room.

Sherlock stood and intercepted him, wrapping his arms around the man and pulling him back onto the couch. He pulled John into his arms and pressed the soldier's head against his chest.

"It's alright." He murmured. John was shaking, and clenching his teeth.

"What...what do you mean?" He asked, still trying to play it off.

"We're still in London. Still in the flat." Sherlock spoke in a soft calming tone, rubbing small circles onto John's back with his fingers. "You're not on the battlefield. You're here with me."

John froze as another explosion went off in the sky. His hands grabbed the back of Sherlock's bathrobe and gripped the fabric tightly.

Sherlock pressed his hands over John's ears, while his eyes searched the room for a more permanent way of blocking out the sound. His eyes fell at last on his violin.

"Stay here." He ordered, slipping out from underneath John who was nodding and squeezing his eyes shut. Sherlock picked up the violin and bow before returning to the couch. He then attempted a posture that most violin players would not, keeping John pressed against his chest while also leveling the violin to his shoulder. He began playing as loudly as the wooden instrument would allow, he didn't attempt to play anything happy knowing that soldiers were not consoled by constant shows of the good in the world. Instead he played a more somber tune, he wanted to give John something to relate to.

The army doctor was gripping the front of Sherlock's shirt, pressing his face into it as if trying to block out the world.

"Get down." He warned suddenly and frantically. "Sherlock, get down. Don't get hurt."

"It's alright." Sherlock reminded. "We're in London. We're not in danger."

He kept on playing long after the fireworks had stopped, and long after John had drifted into sleep. Finally he lowered the instrument carefully to the floor so he could hold John in his arms. He pressed a kiss to the doctor's slumbering head.

For the rest of the night the detective kept careful watch over the man who was tormented by fireworks and dreams of explosions.


	55. That Stupid Sod Gets Himself Hurt

**Dearest readers, I just wanted to take some more time to thank you so much for your reviews. They're so kind and supportive, logging in has become such a joy. When I started this story months ago with Intimate Inverness I never thought this story would get to be over fifty chapters long with over two hundred reviews. Your support means everything to me, so long as you are reading I will be writing.**

**On that note, StarMaya asked: "Can you do one where Sherlock gets hurt badly and John cares for him and be protective?"**

**I tried my best to write something like this, though honestly I couldn't decide between a hospital scene or a more homebound scene. Maybe we'll see the other version in the future. **

**Can we talk about how many of my stories have ended with the two of them sleeping in a hospital bed recently?**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**12:00 A.M.**

Five year old Debbie Dolan, daughter of rich businessman Richard Dolan had been kidnapped earlier that week. After a few unsuccessful days at the Yard, Richard Dolan had set Sherlock Holmes on the case. Sherlock made quick work of it, tracking the kidnapper with ease. Just a few minutes earlier Sherlock had led them straight to where the kidnapper was holding Debbie for ransom.

However not even Sherlock Holmes was flawless, the kidnapper heard them arriving and fled the scene with the girl. Sherlock and John ran off in hot pursuit while John placed a call to Lestrade, phoning in their location. Sherlock easily ran ahead of John, his long legs and endless energy aiding his speed. The kidnapper was dragging Debbie across the road, and the girl was trying to fight him but his grip tightened on her wrist and she began to cry. Sherlock leapt into the street after them, and he was so fixated on the criminal and his hostage that he didn't see the car speeding towards him.

For one second his head turned suddenly, and shock spread across his face making him look even paler than normal. The headlights bathed him in a golden glow and then the car struck his body fling him over the windshield which cracked on impact. Then he was tossed over the car onto the street with a sickening crack.

"Sherlock!" John screamed, running forward and already fearing the worst. He was cursing that idiot and his intentness towards a case, cursing his leg for making him so slow, and screaming out his boyfriend's name.

A crowd had already gathered and cries of "call an ambulance" and "did you see what happened?" were ringing through the air. The driver of the car, a rather shocked man, was still sitting in the car gripping the steering wheel as though trying to strangle it.

John slid down to his knees, most likely scraping them in the process. All he could see was Sherlock covered in blood and looking so...broken and wrong. He was breathing so lightly, and his magnificent coat which often made him look so tall and impressive was not helping him at all now. Now he just looked small.

John went to work right away, doing what he could to staunch the bleeding and checking to see what was broken. His mind was so intent on his work that when the ambulance showed up the paramedics actually had to drag him away in order to get Sherlock into the ambulance.

John didn't take his eyes off Sherlock until they got to the hospital, and the detective was rushed off to the ER.

**12:30 A.M.**

John had his head in his hands, when Lestrade appeared at his side.

"Here." He pushed a paper cup of tea into John's hand, his face full of sympathy and concern. John took the tea gratefully and with a sigh. Behind Lestrade and through the glass doors to the hospital entrance John could just make out Mycroft's black car speeding into the parking lot with a kind of urgency that no one would associate with the normally lethargic man.

"I should be in there." John muttered to Lestrade. "I could be helping."

"I don't think this is something you should help with." Lestrade replied softly. "Besides. I'm sure he'll be fine. Come on, he's Sherlock Holmes!"

"He's Sherlock Holmes." John repeated as though the words were a prayer.

Mycroft was making his way quickly into the waiting area, ignoring the nurse who practically begged him to sign in.

"Mrs. Hudson is trying to contact you." He said to John in lieu of a greeting. "I would respond to her if you don't want her here in tears."

John sighed, he was not in the right mood to console anyone right now. In fact all he wanted to do was scrub up and save the life of the man he loved. It angered him to have other doctors tell him to wait outside, that they needed to work.

Besides, every time he closed his eyes he could see Sherlock flying over the roof of the car...

The three men waited there for hours until a nurse finally came to tell them that Sherlock was out of surgery and could be well enough for visitors in around three or four hours. Mycroft and Lestrade had nodded and made moves to leave but John just shook his head.

"I'll wait here until then."

"Sir, it's nearly two in the morning. Even if you wait that long, visiting hours won't start until ten o'clock." The nurse replied with a shocked look and pursed lips.

"You should go home and sleep." Lestrade pleaded and Mycroft nodded.

"The detective inspector is right. There is nothing more you can do." He gestured towards the door.

"I am going to wait here." John insisted. The nurse just shrugged, clearly more worried about angering her superiors than the antics of the worried man in the waiting room. She rushed off without another word. Mycroft sighed as though used to to this sort of thing and then said his goodbyes promising to stop by later followed shortly by Lestrade who was still trying to get John to go home.

"Are you sure you want to stay here that long?" The detective inspector asked.

"Yeah. I'll be fine. Go on home." John forced a smile onto his face to convince the man that all was well enough to leave.

"Sherlock is lucky." Lestrade sighed. "When he wakes up, I'm going to tell him that."

**8:00 A.M.**

John swore and gave an angry kick to the vending machine. How cliche, a hospital vending machine that refused to work. All he needed was something to keep his blood sugar up because at this point his stomach was growling and he was feeling dizzy. However there was the high calorie snack cake stuck on it's metal rung, taunting him.

"Excuse me?"

John turned to see another nurse standing beside him. She was a young brunette with a look of recognition on her face, her name tag read Ellie M.

"Uh...yes?" He asked, hoping he didn't look like an escaped patient from the mental ward with his messed up hair, wild eyes, and war with the vending machine.

"You're...you're John Watson right? You have the blog." She laughed nervously.

"Yes, that's me." John tried to smile politely, not sure if he could deal with a fan at the moment. If he had to answer one more question about who wore the pants in the relationship...

"I'm a big fan." Ellie smiled. "But...why are you here? Is someone hurt?"

"Yes actually...Sherlock is..." John sighed and the nurse's mouth formed an "o" of surprise.

"I didn't know!" She squeaked. "Oh, how long have you been here? You look awful." She pointed out blatantly.

"Well...since twelve or so..." John ran a hand through his hair, leaning against the snack machine for support. "I'm not leaving until I can see him."

Ellie looked around nervously, then she stepped closer to John and began to whisper.

"I know it's against the rules, but I could probably get you in to see him if you wanted." She nodded.

John's heart nearly stopped and a thrill of relief and joy flew through him.

"That would be...fantastic. Could you do that?" He felt guilty about potentially getting the young girl in trouble, but right now Sherlock was his first priority.

"Yes, just give me a second to find out what room he's in." Ellie smiled.

"Thank you so much." John nearly hugged her before she ran off to go check the patient records.

**8:15 A.M.**

"Just try not to be seen. If a doctor comes in, you never heard of me, got it?" Ellie smiled from the doorway and John nodded vigorously.

"I really appreciate this." He thanked her again and she nodded.

"It's the least I could do." She said before slipping out the door, closing it behind her.

John, being a doctor, went to the chart first before he even looked at the slumbering man lying in the hospital bed.

_Broken ribs, broken radius, internal bleeding, concussion, damage to internal organs minor. He'll live. _

John sighed with relief and placed the chart back on the end of the bed before turning to face Sherlock. The man looked even more pale than usual, which was understandable considering how much he'd been bleeding. He was sleeping soundly, his breath ghosting through his lips in a shallow way that sent a pang of concern through John's chest. He approached Sherlock's bedside and thoroughly examined the man that he was now considering _his_ patient.

Finally he retreated to a chair in the corner of the room, collapsing into it with a yawn. Now that he knew Sherlock was okay, he could sleep.

**10:30 A.M.**

John stretched and yawned, his back was killing him almost as much as his leg was. As his eyes opened he noticed that Sherlock was awake and sitting up with a book propped up on his knees. It was almost comical how the detective insisted on holding the book when his left arm was bound in a cast, hence laying the book against his knees.

As John stirred Sherlock looked up from his book with a look of pure bored annoyance.

"Can you believe this? They won't let me go home, John." He hissed.

John could hardly believe his ears. The man was hit by a car and still he found a way to complain about the doctors that saved his life. John opened his mouth to say something about how it was a good thing that Sherlock was still in the hospital but he ended up just snapping it shut again and shaking his head with a sigh.

"Where'd the book come from?" He asked instead.

"Mrs. Hudson dropped by. She knew I would need something to keep myself busy. She's learning." Sherlock replied. "She said something about me terrorizing doctors. I don't know. Mycroft came too while you were asleep."

John stood and walked over to Sherlock, nodding at the words leaving the detective's mouth without actually listening to them.

"I'm apparently bedridden. Also I'm forbidden from telling the doctors about their own personal lives." Sherlock continued to complain and John sighed, lifting a hand to silence him.

"Sherlock." He commanded. "Just...shush."

Sherlock opened his mouth as though to protest but then shut it firmly. John approached Sherlock's bedside and almost fell onto the man, hugging him tightly.

"You sod." He growled. "I can't believe you."

"I'm sorry, John. Next time should I try to not be struck by a vehicle?" Sherlock's voice held all of it's usual snark but there was just a bit of pain layering the words. John pulled back ready for two different kinds of lectures.

"First of all, yes try not to be hit by a car because that was entirely your fault. Secondly don't get sarcastic because you're uncomfortable with me being worried and in pain from me hugging you." He scolded, and Sherlock at least had the decency to look downwards.

"Good." John sighed, bending down to press a kiss to Sherlock's forehead.

**3:00 P.M.**

"Shit."

John sighed and stared down in frustration at the puddle of split tea that had accumulated on the floor after he'd tripped and dropped the cup he'd been bringing to Sherlock. Trying to ignore the looks that the detective was giving him, he looked around for something to mop it up with. Finding nothing he simply sighed and tossed the paper cup into the trash can and walked around the tea to collapse into the chair he'd dragged to Sherlock's bed.

"You're tired." Sherlock pointed out, unhelpfully.

"Yes." John replied, rubbing at his temples.

Sherlock shook his head and settled back onto the pillows, a wince flickering over his features faintly. John's brow furrowed in concern.

"Does it hurt?" He asked.

"Hardly." Sherlock snapped, glaring back at his companion.

"When was the last time you got medication?" John pushed.

"Unimportant. It's not that bad." Sherlock huffed, insistent on not looking weak.

John shook his head and crawled into the bed next to Sherlock, peppering his face in kisses.

"Of course not." He teased. "Even so there will be no running around chasing criminals until you've made a full recovery." He insisted knowing full well that as soon as Sherlock could run he would.

"You're asking too much of me." Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock. Rest." John sighed, pulling the man down into his arms. Sherlock acquiesced, though he grumbled about John's restrictions until he fell asleep.

None of the doctors or nurses were brave enough to ask Captain John Watson to move from Sherlock's side that night.


	56. Vanity and Ego

**It feels like it's been forever since I've written for this! My other stories remain neglected but at least I can come up with new chapters for this. I apologize for all this waiting, and hopefully my writing is still living up to expectations. Enjoy!**

* * *

"...which you can tell by the slight limp visible in the footprints. Any other irritatingly stupid questions?" Sherlock looked around at the various police officers staring at him with a mixture of awe and hate. He tried to feel triumphant, and tried to enjoy the usual post case high. However this time there was something that kept him from enjoying the moment.

For starters, he was currently out of his usual London territory in order to cater to a particularly interesting case in the country. This meant that the police force was unaccustomed to dealing with him and therefore:

1. Even more slow-witted than the Yard

2. Reluctant to allow him at the crime scene

3. Silent and stupid

It wasn't like he wanted them to thank him, just a bit of sarcasm or anything at all. Sherlock nearly found himself missing Anderson, if only because he wanted to put somebody down.

The worst part of the whole event was that John had decided to stay home to keep up with work. In Sherlock's mind this was an open betrayal, for how could work be more important than him?

Rather than stick around and deal with country officers for any extended period of time, Sherlock decided to retreat back to his hotel room. There was no point in trying to get home at this late hour, so he'd stay one more night before returning to the city.

Sherlock tossed his coat and scarf onto a nearby chair before kicking off his shoes and perching on the edge of the bed.

_John probably stayed home so he could cater to that new girl's whims. Whatever her name is. She needs to leave, she's interrupting my work._ He thought bitterly.

Although Sherlock would never admit it to anyone else, he had decided to admit to himself that he cared for John Watson a lot more than he should. This was a problem because the more he fawned over and admired the army doctor, the more he became frustrated that his affections were unanswered. It's not as though he was stupid enough to believe that John would love him back, he just wanted him to be a more attentive friend. He wanted John to care when he went far away on a case, wanted him to come along to shield him from words like "freak", to compliment him, to be someone with which he could joke about the stupidity of normal people.

Sherlock sighed and gave into the urge, pulling his phone from his pocket and firing off a quick almost innocent text.

Quick. Tell me I'm brilliant. I believe I have rendered everyone here mute, so I'd appreciate a reminder that people can talk.

-SH

The reply took what was to Sherlock an agonizing amount of time, although in reality it was only ten minutes. It read:

The depths of your humility. I'm only guessing here but you did something rude didn't you?

-JW

I do recall telling you to call me brilliant?

-SH

Sherlock smirked, being intolerable was what he was best at. Not to mention that he needed to hear just one compliment from John before he could go back to not caring what anyone thought.

Fine. You're brilliant. And I'm busy.

-JW

Never start a sentence with "and", it's bad grammar.

-SH

Busy with what?

-SH

On a date I presume. A waste of time.

-SH

There was no reply, and Sherlock felt his shoulders sink ever so slightly. Emotion was a fickle thing, and Sherlock hated that he'd become prey to it. He couldn't afford such weakness.

The detective tossed his phone aside and settled against the pillows, preparing for a sleepless night of pondering.

Three hours later, his phone began buzzing.

His pride prevented him from answering right away. After another fifteen minutes he allowed himself to read the messages, though whether or not he would answer them was doubtful.

Date went well.

-JW

Sherlock sneered, why should he care? Why should it matter what dull and mundane things John and his new girlfriend were doing? Why was John so focused on this girl and not him? Was she really more important?

You're boring me.

-SH

Just thought I would tell you. You know, like what normal friends do.

-JW

Sherlock's lip curled in displeasure.

Normal?

-SH

Yes. Normal. Are you above the word?

-JW

I'd like to think so.

-SH

I am just normal to you?

-SH

What else would you be, Sherlock?

-JW

Sherlock glared at the screen like it had caused him a personal affront. It appeared he had offended John and in turn John sought to offend him. Sherlock gripped the phone so hard he almost imagined the plastic casing would crack. For a moment he considered the more logical option of tossing the phone away and ignoring the insult, but for once emotion won out and maybe that was because John made him so crazy.

I certainly hope I'm not as normal and boring as the girl you shagged tonight.

-SH

It felt good being impulsive and angry, so Sherlock kept writing.

After all you could tell how much was wrong with her after one glance. Habitual nail biter, a dieter on the border of an eating disorder, self esteem issues, cheated on her last boyfriend. Honestly, it's as though you seek out the worst of womankind.

-SH

Sherlock smirked, it felt good to insult the woman stealing John's affections. Even if John didn't return his feelings or even if John grew angry with him at least he could still lash out at something.

Did you get that out of your system?

-JW

I'll take the silence and pouting as a yes.

-JW

John, I needed you here today.

-SH

Was what the next message read. Following shortly after was:

Because your input is often times not worthless, and the case is clearly more important than your dating life.

-SH

The two didn't talk for the rest of the night.

Sherlock returned to Baker Street the next day, happy to be back in the city where crime was frequent. Even if the countryside held interesting cases, for the most part they came once in a blue moon and that was simply not enough to sate the detective's hunger for work.

He greeted Mrs. Hudson at the door before walking up the stairs to his flat. He was looking forward to taking his violin in hand to play one of the somber slow songs he played as he thought to himself. However when he reached forward to open the door, it swung open swiftly and startled the detective.

John was standing on the other side of the door with his arms crossed and his phone in hand.

"Are we going to talk about this now?" He asked. He looked cross and confused.

"Talk about what?" Sherlock pushed past John, his voice uninterested. Whatever John was going on about, whether it was hands in the fridge or chemicals in the kettle, it wasn't intriguing at the moment.

"I don't know, about this?" John thrust the phone into Sherlock's view, and the detective ran his eyes over the message. He recognized the first half of it, but as he read the second half his face flushed a faint red and his mind began racing for explanations.

Because your input is often times not worthless, and I am clearly more important than your dating life.

-SH

That was his text, and his signature, but that last part...surely he had said "case" not "I". Didn't he? Was it possible during the heat of the moment he'd typed the wrong thing? Sherlock turned his head away from the Freudian slip and found an instant interest in the floor.

"What about it?" He asked innocently, already feeling doomed.

"Is there something you want to say?" John demanded, the way a parent might demand an apology from a misbehaving child.

"What do you expect me to say?" Sherlock allowed his eyes to drift up to John, he tried to deduce the man's emotions but it was hard at this moment. The air seemed a little too thick and the space between the two of them was a little too small.

"Do you want my attention?" John asked. Sherlock remained quiet so John repeated himself. "Do you want my attention, Sherlock? All of it?"

"Does it look like I require attention like some rabbit?" Sherlock hissed back.

"That's what it looks like to me, you brilliant ridiculous man." John's face softened, and then he began to laugh. Sherlock's face grew puzzled and a little annoyed.

"What's so funny?" He growled, and John smiled up at the taller man.

"So, it didn't take you very long to solve that country case did it? You're too clever for your own good. Brilliant, fantastic, amazing." He smirked.

"John?" Sherlock was blushing though he didn't realize it.

"Is that why you like me around? To compliment you?" John shook his head. "Do you need me to pay attention to you Sherlock? Is that why you scare off all my dates?"

"Don't put so much worth into a text message." Sherlock snapped, turning to retreat to his bedroom. However, John caught him by his coat sleeve and turned him back around.

"I'm not going to see Darcy again." John chuckled.

_So that was her name._ Sherlock couldn't help but think.

"Why does this involve me?" He asked coldly.

"Because, that means I can spend my days following you around making sure your ego is thoroughly boosted." John replied. "You seem to need it."

"What makes you think-"

"Sherlock, you're amazing." John grinned as the detective's face lowered, trying to hide it's redness. "You're also a vain little sod, but I think I can deal with that."

Sherlock studied the doctor. With one text message he had managed to free himself of the irksome woman keeping John from cases, and was able to guarantee John's participation in future cases.

This seemed like progress.


	57. The Violinist

** Sierra Wood said: "Actually, I would love it if you could do one with Sherlock's violin breaking or something. Update soon!"**

**May I just say, brilliant idea, Sierra. We all know that Sherlock's most prized possession is his beloved violin, and if it broke he'd most likely go into shock. I was excited to start work on this story, and I am sorry it took so long.**

**Also, do you all remember which episode the sword in this story comes from? ;)**

**Enjoy! **

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It wasn't the first time there'd been an intruder in 221B Baker Street, and it wouldn't be the living room of infamous detective Sherlock Holmes had been host to terrorists, smugglers, kidnappers, thieves, and dealers over the years.

In fact this wasn't even the first assassin to have found his way into Sherlock's Baker Street digs.

"Sherlock!" John chased after his quick moving flatmate, wishing for the revolver he'd neglected to retrieve from his bedside table. At this point he was a little less concerned by the assassin that had walked into their flat early that morning armed with a small pistol and surprised it's slumbering residents. Now he was more concerned about the crazed looking detective in his pajamas, who insisted on jumping into the assassin's sight instead of staying under cover like he was told.

Sherlock seemed to have found a sword under the couch (little did John know this was a souvenir from another attempt on the detective's life) and was trying to drive the gun wielding man into a corner.

"You're going to get shot you sod!" John growled from where he was crouched behind an armchair. He knew it would do little to impede a bullet, but he still felt better being behind something after the first three bullets had embedded themselves into the wall. Mrs. Hudson would not be happy about that.

John was considering tackling the man so that Sherlock could run for help, when the detective managed in knocking the gun from the man's hands using his new-found sword. The assassin growled and looked around quickly for something to use as a weapon, he grabbed the closest thing possible and swung it over his head to send it crashing down on Sherlock's.

John took advantage of this distraction to send a well aimed punch to the man's jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground where his head made a lovely cracking sound against the floor. John made sure the man was out for the count before he turned to see if Sherlock was recovering.

The detective was kneeling on the ground, clutching large splinters of wood in his hands and holding them tight to his chest. John half slid half knelt to the ground in order to examine Sherlock's head for injury, however the detective pulled away in a sulking fit.

"Sherlock, just sit still. I need to see how bad this is!" John insisted, reaching again for the detective.

"It's beyond hope, John! There's no fixing this!" Sherlock cried out and John thought for a moment he heard a teary edge to his voice.

"You just got hit over the head, it's not deadly. Just let me see." John sighed, but Sherlock still refused to let John near. John pulled back a ways, frustrated by his flatemate's lack of cooperation. That was when he saw what the bits of wood in Sherlock's hands really were...or rather was.

The weapon the assassin had chosen to defend himself with was Sherlock's prized violin, a violin which now lay in shattered disarray in the detective's hands. The neck was still intact, but the strings dangled off of it like broken wings, and the deep colored wood had flown off to all corners of the room with the exception of what Sherlock had managed to scoop into his arms.

"Oh..." John gasped. He knew how much that instrument meant to Sherlock, what most people considered an inanimate object Sherlock considered a tool for thinking and expressing emotion when words failed. Most days he handled the violin the way one would place a hand on a woman's waist before dancing, and he'd play the thing at all times of night until John was cursing the inventor of the violin and all violin's made since.

"Oh, Sherlock I am so sorry..." He reached towards Sherlock to offer some reassuring gesture, however he was cut off by the moanings of the man on the floor. John figured it was a good time to call the police so they could pick up the killer, he would have to see to Sherlock later.

An hour or so later the Yard's finest had the man in handcuffs and on his way to the station. John waved them off at the door before returning up to his flat. It was there that he found Sherlock still where he'd left him, staring in despair at the remnants of his violin.

"Sherlock...?" John reached out his hand to help the detective up, but Sherlock ignored it. Instead he sighed and tossed the bits of wood to the ground, wincing slightly as each touched the floor.

"I'm going to be busy today. If you or Mrs. Hudson get it into your head that you want to bother me, think hard about it and then reconsider." He snapped, leaping to his feet and storming off into his bedroom with bathrobe swirling about and door slamming.

John just barely avoided rolling his eyes, even if Sherlock's tantrums were extreme, he could hardly blame him at this point.

Unwilling to throw out the scattered remains, John scooped up the bits of violin and placed them on the table to add to the clutter that had accumulated there. He sighed and sat on the couch, staring at them. This would clearly not do. Without some outlet for his thoughts, Sherlock became intolerable. It may seem like a stretch to some, but anyone close to him knew that sometimes that violin is what kept him from crossing the border from mildly bored to in need of a cocaine injection.

Besides, John couldn't get that kicked dog look out of his brain. Sherlock, hovering over his broken violin with a tear-broken voice and desolate eyes...

No, John was going to have to do something about it.

It was close to eleven o'clock at night when Sherlock finally emerged from his room, and judging by the new minor chemical burns dotting the detective's hands he had been busy conducting experiments the entire day. Ignoring the usual worry that came when he saw Sherlock disregarding basic safety and injuring himself for the sake of some scientific discovery, John casually waved at Sherlock's arrival.

Sherlock ignored him, walking straight into the kitchen to retrieve some chemical odds or ends from where his usual laboratory sat on the table, just as John knew he eventually would. It was there that Sherlock paused, noticing the plain looking cardboard box just barely fitting next to his test tubes and Erlenmeyer flasks. John tried not to peek or smile, but out of the corner of his eye he saw pale curious fingers alight to the top of the box. Being Sherlock, he couldn't just open the box, no he had to analyze it first. Once he'd given the box a cursory glance, he gently lifted the dual flaps up to reveal it's contents.

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he froze with shock. Then his hands delved into the package to withdraw a beautifully made violin with a simple red ribbon tied around the neck.

"I don't know anything about instruments but the man at the store said this one was the right size and it cost me a lot more than I have, so I figure it's good." John called from where he sat on the couch, a smile creasing his face.

"...You bought this for me?" Sherlock whispered, still admiring the violin.

"Yeah." John nodded.

Suddenly Sherlock had placed the violin gently on the table and made his way with great speed to where John was sitting. He practically tackled the doctor, perching on his lap and wrapping his arms tightly around him. John was too shocked to do anything except gape at the un-Sherlock behavior. He was also too shocked to react when the detective leaned forward and placed a clumsy kiss against his lips. The kiss went on for quite a bit, and even after it had ended and left both men breathless Sherlock leaned in again and gave John a slower more well executed kiss. Then the detective was gone as quickly as he had come, and he was back in the kitchen tuning his new violin with a broad smile on his face.

John was sitting on the couch, awestruck.

He could get used to this.


	58. His Heart, Under My Protection

**Anonymously Gorgeous said: "More hurt/angst John and possessive protective Sherlock!"**

**Your wish is my command dear reader! ;)**

**This one was so hard to write while keeping John in character, you have no idea. Not to mention I kept worrying I had used the end of this story in another story before (it gets hard to keep track of which ideas I have used and which I haven't when you have a story over fifty chapters long!) Hopefully it turns out alright, enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock was well experienced in being introverted and reclusive. Sometimes he wouldn't leave his room for days, wouldn't talk to anyone at all. This was normal for him.

It was not, however, normal for John Watson.

Though many people considered Sherlock ignorant to the emotions of other people, he was very well attuned to John and his attitudes. He could usually tell how the soldier felt just by looking at the lines around his eyes, his stance, whether or not he was limping, or the tremor in his hand. So when John began displaying behavior which was once totally foreign to him, he began to worry immensely.

It had been a few days, at first John just returned home with a sulking look and would retreat to his room for the remainder of the day. Just yesterday however John had not left his room at all. Sherlock had resisted the urge to check on his friend at first, wondering if maybe this was how normal people dealt with their problems (rather than deleting them from their minds and disregarding them entirely). It was only when the next morning came and John had still not left his room that Sherlock decided to take matters into his own hands.

Without bothering to knock, Sherlock pushed open John's door and walked inside with determination. He saw John curled up in bed under the comforter, dressed in a light t-shirt and sweatpants. Even though the doctor was in bed and appeared to just have been woken from sleep, his eyes had dark circles around them and he looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Sherlock, I don't care who's been murdered." He groaned, shoving his face into the pillow. "I'm taking a day off."

"Two days off." Sherlock corrected, not intending to sound critical.

John just grunted in reply and pretended to ignore the consulting detective pacing his room anxiously. Sherlock paced back and forth twice more before diving into the problem at hand.

"John, is there something wrong?" He fumbled over the words, but he meant them even if he had trouble saying them. "I would like for you to tell me if something is wrong."

"Sherlock. Go away." John sighed angrily, pushing himself up into a seated position in the bed and shooting Sherlock a pointed glare.

"This isn't normal for you, and I'm given to understand that as your friend I am allowed to notice and show concern about this." Sherlock felt a strange tugging in his chest as he said the word 'friend'. As if he wished there were some other word to describe his relationship to John. Clearly John was more than that. Sherlock had few friends: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly...but still he could tell that John saw more of the inside of his head than anyone else he considered close to him.

"Couldn't you pick another time to develop emotions?" John replied frankly. Sherlock shook off the insult easily.

"You have not eaten at all the past day and a half." He continued. "This is also of concern to me. Considering how you always insist on my eating and sleeping regularly."

"Sherlock." John's voice held a warning tone, but it wasn't the usual strong and fierce tone John could take. No it sounded as though if Sherlock pushed anymore, then John would begin to cry. Sherlock simply adopted a thoughtful look and then strode out of the room quickly.

Whenever the detective was wrapped up in a case and refusing to stop for lunch, John would make him meals and then pester him about it until he ate. Sherlock would take a page from John's book then and make the doctor breakfast.

He began by filling the kettle for tea, before moving on to locating eggs behind the bag of eyeballs in the fridge and bacon under the drawer full of fingers.

Sherlock knew that John would be curious as to why the detective burst into his room and demanded a conversation only to dart out again, and so rather than ask John's presence he would simply wait until the doctor crept out of his bedroom to find out what Sherlock was up to. He didn't have to wait long, John appeared at the entrance to the kitchen just in time for Sherlock to set a mug of tea and a plate of breakfast on the table (after he'd cleared it of his chemistry set of course).

John eyed the table with disbelief, then looked up and shared his disbelief with Sherlock. The detective raised an eyebrow as if saying: "I can be nice.". Then he walked over and took John's arm carefully in his hands before leading him to the chair where he'd set out breakfast.

Sherlock gave his friend a cursory glance while he was busy pushing the food around on his plate. If something was wrong, wouldn't he be able to see it clear as day the way he could tell a man's profession from the ink splatters on his sleeve or could tell a woman was cheating by the lipstick she wore? John seemed closed off and blank to him, and that was almost as worrying as his uncharacteristic behavior.

"You're staring." John announced.

"Hm?" Sherlock's eyes slowly moved away from the man they had been studying. John sighed and placed his fork down, turning to look at his flatmate.

"It's Miranda." He sighed. Sherlock searched for the name and after a minute or so of staring blankly he finally remembered that Miranda was John's girlfriend of a year or so now.

"I figured you would have found out on your own by now but I guess you've been busy with your own things." John continued. "It's just...lately she was making excuses saying she was sick or at work...you know. Finally I find out she'd been sleeping with the man in the flat under her's since before she met me." John rubbed at his temples. "And if I hadn't figured this out...well she just seemed important to me."

Sherlock felt disgust rising up inside him. Of course he could never have seen because John never brought his girlfriends back to the flat anymore, he'd never lain eyes on the girl or else he would have warned John earlier. Finding out that this woman had led John on for a year, and played with his emotions only to leave him in this battered state...

Sherlock didn't even think about it, he didn't have a moment of considering his feelings for John and he didn't debate what he had to do in order to comfort the man. He just leaned forward and pulled John into his arms, wrapping them tightly around him.

John was clearly confused, but he didn't resist. He just lay against Sherlock with a meekness one would never associate with the army man. This only caused Sherlock to squeeze tighter.

"My dear John..." He sighed. "Did you really go this long without me noticing?"

"You were busy. You had that case when it all happened, and afterwards I made sure you didn't get a chance to see me." John murmured into the fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

"You shouldn't do that." Sherlock snapped. "I need to know if something is wrong with you, John. You are all I have and no case is more important than your well-being."

"It was just a breakup, hardly life threatening." John pulled away from Sherlock now, attempting to regain his composure.

"You were locked in your room refusing to eat." Sherlock said this as if he was scolding him.

"Isn't that your move?" John chuckled.

"Don't joke." Sherlock said quickly even though the corners of his mouth did lift slightly. "John, if you are unable to take care of yourself at this time then I will take care of you."

"I wouldn't say I can't..." John began to protest before sighing, realizing his argument was a little futile.

"John..." Sherlock's voice rumbled. "No one will ever break your heart again."

"You can't know that." John shook his head. "That's just one of the risks of falling in love."

"No, I mean it." Sherlock insisted. "I know because I'm going to take care of your heart from now on. No one else can touch it without my permission."

John felt like he should be yelling at the detective that he was being unreasonable and a bit possessive, but he couldn't find any anger in him. In fact he actually felt warmer, happier even, hearing Sherlock swear to protect his heart.

"Alright..." He agreed, his voice cracking a bit.

"Eat now." Sherlock commanded. "I'll run a warm shower for you. Then sleep, real sleep. Clearly you haven't slept in quite some time." The detective shook his head, looking rather ashamed at having let John sink to this condition.

"Thanks." John smiled. Sherlock simply gave John a curious look and then left him to finish his breakfast.

Two weeks later, John had dragged Sherlock out to do the shopping with him. It had taken a great amount of effort, but for some reason the detective had softened to John's will lately and had been allowing the doctor to take him out shopping or make him clean up his experiments when he was done.

They were walking down the street, Sherlock with his hands in his pockets and his breath fogging in the late October air and John talking excitedly about a patient at work when they first saw the woman sitting at an outdoors table at a coffee shop a few steps before them. John noticed her first, freezing on the spot with a horrified and pained look on his face. Sherlock followed his glance to the woman and needed no further explanation. Clearly this woman was Miranda.

Sherlock was about to take John's arm and lead him away when the woman noticed them both, her mouth forming an 'o' of shock. She abandoned her coffee and ran up to them both.

"John! Oh thank god it's you!" She said in a pleading voice, taking John's hand in hers. "I was so wrong, John. Kevin left me. I should have picked you, honest!" She cried out, and John was trying hard to look somewhere else.

_This,_ Sherlock thought to himself, _is not acceptable._

"Excuse me." He addressed the woman, and she blinked up at him as though she hadn't known he was there until now. Now that Sherlock had her attention, he focused his own attention on John. He leaned down and pulled the doctor into his arms and placed a soft kiss over his lips. John froze with the confusion of the moment, and Sherlock used this to his advantage and kept his arms wrapped tightly around the man.

"John isn't yours anymore." He snapped at the woman, close to baring his teeth like some kind of wolf. "Leave him alone."

"I...I..." Looking a little more shocked than even John, Miranda backed up a few steps before blushing and returning to her seat at the coffee shop.

Sherlock turned to John, hoping that the doctor would see the kiss as a tactical move to rid them of an unwanted presence, that he wouldn't read into the impulsive emotional reason for which it really occurred. It hadn't been a plan...no Sherlock just wanted this woman and everyone else in the area to know that John's heart was not theirs to break.

"I apologize..." Sherlock began when he saw John's surprised face. "I..."

"Oh shut up..." John pressed himself up against Sherlock's body. "...and do it again."


End file.
